Long and Lost
by Nina Windia
Summary: For his friend's sake, Richard stands as the best man at Asbel's wedding, wishing things could have turned out differently between them. As for Asbel: his life seems idyllic. He's married to the woman he loves, fulfilling his role as Lord of Lhant. Yet he begins to wonder how, despite his efforts, he's ended up living the exact life his father wanted for him. Richard/Asbel.
1. intoxication

A/N- so, this is a fic that stemmed from my dissatisfaction with Lineages and Legacies. The game didn't sell me on Asbel/Cheria and it inadvertently felt like the guy had just been pressured into proposing to her. Likewise it didn't sit right with me that he threw away his ambition of knighthood and caved in to his family's desire for Asbel to take up his title. Peer pressure, man.

So in response to this I decided to write 20k+ of angst. This story will be 8 chapters long, with an epilogue.

* * *

 **Long and Lost**

by Nina Windia

The one thing Richard tries to comfort himself with is that this situation is one he's chosen himself. He's made his bed, and now he can lie in it.

The thought, unsurprisingly, isn't comforting.

They hold the wedding in the garden outside the Lhant manor. It's just supposed to be a small affair, but the wedding of the Lord of Lhant with the King of Windor as his best man was never destined to be a small affair.

Richard tries to console himself with the thought that at the very least, Asbel opted out of holding the ceremony on top of Lhant Hill. That place has become almost sacred for the memories he's shared with Asbel and Sophie. To hold his wedding with Cheria there would border on sacrilegious. Perhaps, on one level, Asbel knows this, which is why he decided to hold the ceremony on the lawn.

The thought, however, isn't terribly consoling. Not when he's standing by Asbel's side and his friend face cracks open in sheer adoration and love as Cheria walks up the aisle.

"…Wow," breathes Asbel.

She's the blushing bride she's always dreamed of as her lace trail skirts the grass, a bouquet of white lilies in her hands. And Richard cannot bring himself to begrudge her happiness, which is as long-sought after as his own.

…And yet, that does not stop the pain that grips his chest as Cheria takes Asbel's hands.

It does not change the fact that this situation is utterly unbearable, and yet Richard continues to hold his smile in place with as much determination as a sailor clinging to a ship-wrecked spar. And when Cheria and Asbel exchange their vows and kiss, he lets out of a cheer louder than anybody, to cover the sound of his own heart breaking.

* * *

That night, the Lhant manor is strung with dozens and dozens of hanging lanterns and garlands of flowers. Sophie and Lady Kerri have slaved over the decorations for weeks, and the garden is transformed.

As the blush of sunset fades and night starts to fall the lanterns are lit, the celebration begins in earnest.

He gives his best man's speech, retelling the story of when he met Asbel and Cheria, both as children and then as young adults and how even then, he knew there was something special between them. How it seemed like they were meant for one another.

This isn't mere rhetoric, either.

He'd watched, probably more closely than any other as Asbel fell for Cheria. And by the time he was reunited with his friends after the Lambda incident, he'd lost him forever.

 _How over-dramatic_ , he chides himself. After all, this situation is hardly his alone. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of people have loved without ever being loved back.

This is why he agreed to the (foolish) decision to be Asbel's best man. And because Asbel had asked him with that smile on his face and his eyes lit up, and… Richard has never been able to say no to him. For what Asbel has done, for the friend he's been to him, Richard would move heaven and earth for his happiness.

That his own hinges on this is utterly irrelevant.

A musical quartet plays, and Asbel swings Sophie round and round in the garden, their laughter rising above the chatter of the party. Pascal is raiding the buffet table with Malik, and from across the garden Richard sees Hubert watching her. She piles her plate full of greasy chicken but he watches her like he's seen a goddess. She doesn't even notice him.

Love, Richard thinks, is ridiculous.

Richard rarely drinks, but today feels like a special occasion, and he takes a glass of wine when the waiter holds out the tray to him.

"Richard, how come you're out here alone?"

Richard looks up to see Asbel smiling down at him.

He hoists back up his smile. "Ah, I just wanted to step out for some fresh air."

Asbel nods. "It's pretty crowded in the house. I'm pretty sure I didn't invite some of these people…"

"I don't think you invited half of them," Richard says.

"Oh well! So long as everyone has a good time, I'm good," Asbel laughs.

The quartet starts up with a new song, and thoughtful, Asbel asks, "Hey, do you want to dance, Richard?"

Asbel has always been cruel.

But then, Richard has never been able to help himself, either.

He downs the last of his wine, and takes the hand Asbel is offering him.

Years ago, after they'd finished dealing with the rest of the monsters Lambda (he) spawned, Richard had taught Asbel how to dance. Richard had wanted to show his appreciation for everything his friend had done for him, and to do so had organised a proper knighting ceremony for Asbel, instead of just a piece of paper. Although Asbel seemed settled in his role of Lord of Lhant, Richard did not forget all the years he spent training towards the dream of becoming a knight.

So he had rounded up the nobility and had done the thing properly, and Asbel had knelt before him and swore his fealty and when he'd risen they broke with all formality and the King had embraced his knight, holding him tight enough to hurt. (but it still wasn't hard enough.)

There was a ball that night, and the week beforehand Asbel had admitted that uh, no, he couldn't dance. Richard couldn't very well not let Asbel dance at his party, and to that end they'd spent every night for a week practicing together.

When Richard thought of those evenings in the empty room in the east wing, with the golden light arching in through the windows and Asbel's arms around his, his breath still hitched in his throat.

He still can't shake off the golden, almost translucent feeling of those memories, seared into the back of his retinas. And as he and Asbel step into the middle of the other dancers and Asbel puts his hands on his waist, he still feels the echoes of Asbel's fingers where years ago, he'd held him.

"Richard? Is everything alright?"

Their eyes stumble into contact. Asbel frowns.

"Absolutely," he says, and he smiles. He smiles because despite everything, even though Asbel's married someone who isn't him, right here and right now, Asbel is with him. Even if it's just for a few minutes, before Asbel goes back to his wife. And Richard is left drinking alone, nursing his own fragile and foolish human heart.

* * *

One glass of wine turns into two, and as the night deepens Richard stops keeping count. The buffer of alcohol dampens his pain and frustration, and instead transmutes it into a pleasant, dull, numbness.

He remembers dancing with Pascal, but then the pleasant dullness starts to fade into a blur that all feels too fast and strange for him to keep up with.

And it's too much— it's all too much to bear, and—

"Richard, drink a bit more. You'll feel better afterwards."

The next thing Richard knows, he's inside the manor, the buzz of conversation surrounding him like a bubble, staring at the glass of water that's somehow got into his hand.

"You'll have an awful headache if you don't," says a voice, and he pulls his gaze away from the glass of water that demands his attention to see Cheria crouched beside him in her wedding dress.

"Everything hurts," he tells her.

"Well, you were knocking it back a bit fast, Richard," Cheria tells him, with more compassion than he deserves. "Keep sipping that and you'll feel better soon. I'll get you something to eat, too."

She makes to rise, but Richard feels his finger close round her wrist. "Please, don't trouble yourself. I'm fine," he manages out, and she sinks back down.

He doesn't know why he wants to her to stay. Doesn't know why he's got himself in this predicament of all predicaments.

If there's a word to sum this up Richard thinks it's probably masochism.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You don't need to keep apologising, Richard," Cheria says.

The people in the town call her the Angel of Lhant, but in her gown studded with pearl seeds and lace, cheeks dusted with rouge, the thought crosses Richard's addled mind that she looks the part of a real angel.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

* * *

The party begins to wind down. There's still a lot of people Richard doesn't know, milling around, sat on the stairs and chatting. The room's finally stopped spinning, though it remains reassuringly hazy.

Cheria and Asbel vanished upstairs, some time before.

When he thinks about that, Richard starts feeling queasy again.

Pascal's been perched by his side, chatting endlessly with words that go in one ear and slip out of the other. She's been asked to stay with him by Cheria, Richard thinks.

When she slips away for more food, or the bathroom, or something, somebody else takes their place.

A hand slides itself against Richard's thigh.

For several moments, Richard just stares at it. As though wondering what it's doing there.

"Fancy coming upstairs with me?" a voice slithers into his ear.

Richard makes himself look up. The man sat beside him is a stranger. Yet there's something about him. The colour of his hair, and something about the shape of his jaw. They remind him of…

"Alright," Richard says, as he takes his hand.

* * *

Richard finds himself in one of the guest rooms in the manor, shoved up against the wall by a stranger who takes him with hot, bruising kisses. Clothes come off, though Richard doesn't remember unbuttoning anything. They tumble back onto the fresh linen of the bed, he and the stranger, and Richard forgets everything but golden light streaming through the windows and echoes of his friend, his love's touch on him, and a terrible, burning _need_.

And from certain angles, he looks so much like him that Richard lets himself imagine it's his hands upon him, his fingers driving to a messy, sloppy rising ecstasy.

"A-Asbel! Asbel!" Richard gasps, as fingernails dig into skin, "God, Asbel—"

So caught in the hedonistic pleasure of it all, Richard doesn't hear the door click open. Not until he sees Asbel, his necktie loose, standing in the doorway.

No doubt, sent by a worried Pascal to search for the missing King.

In a second, all of Richard's rising desire is extinguished like fingers, dousing an eleth lamp. Asbel's eyes are wide, and Richard opens his mouth to speak, before he closes it upon the realisation there's nothing really he can say.

 _I'm sorry?_

 _I love you?_

None of it is right.

And shame is roiling in tight, hot coils in his stomach, and Richard feels as though he's going to be sick.

Asbel's eyes close, very briefly, as though he's in pain. He opens his mouth, too, and closes it. Tries again:

"Sorry to disturb you," he says.

Those words, too, mean nothing. And Richard cannot look his friend in the eye.

Asbel closes the door between them with a soft, final click.

The stranger puts a hand on Richard's shoulder. He says something to him that Richard cannot hear above the rise of rushing of blood in his ears.

"Leave me," he spits, hard as stone.

He sits, unmoving, on the bed as the stranger dresses and without another word, slips away.

Richard sits there in the empty room, naked and hunched, listening to the muffled sound of laughter and conversation leaking through the walls, alone with his shame and his desire burning through him.

Even if this is something he's done to himself, the pain isn't any less real.


	2. flowers grow

_Part II: flowers grow_

* * *

"Your Majesty, you have a visitor."

Sat over his growing pile of paperwork, Richard presses the balls of his hands against his tired eyelids. "Please, I asked not to be disturbed," he says.

"My, uh, apologies your Majesty. She is quite insistent…"

She?

He sets down his quill. "Who exactly—"

"Richard!" There's a flash of purple and Sophie squeezes through the doorway and past the servant. Her hair is a swallow chasing after her as she swoops round his desk, and he's barely rising as he's nearly bundled over by the force she puts into her embrace.

"Sophie! I didn't know you were coming," Richard says, one hand steadying himself against the desk. In the corner of his eye, he sees the attendant take a brief bow, and with a muted smile, close the door behind him.

"I wanted to surprise you, Richard," says Sophie. She's hugging him hard, and even after all this time Richard still hasn't gotten used to just how big she is. Before, he would have thought nothing of ruffling her hair like she was a small child. But the gesture seems wrong, now.

"Well, count me surprised," said Richard. And the thought strikes him. "Did… Asbel perhaps come with you?" he asks.

She pulls back from their embrace, and there's something almost sympathetic in her eyes as she says, "No. He said there was too much work to do at home with the the festival coming up. And he wanted to get some things ready for the baby."

With every year that she lives as a human, Richard thinks, Sophie collects a keen, growing wisdom. In some ways— in her affection to her friends, and in her enthusiasm for flora— she still seems a child. And yet there is a perception there now that wasn't there before. Behind her innocent eyes is a fierce, intuitive intelligence.

Simply put: Sophie sees things that others cannot see. And she understands.

"Well, I understand how he feels about work," Richard says, with the hint of a smile playing at his lips as he looks over at his own towering pile of paperwork. "Though he certainly is keen. Cheria can't be that many months along, can she?"

"Four months," Sophie says. "He's excited. He repainted the nursery three times already."

"Goodness. Surprises abound. Hard to imagine him enamoured with home decorating."

Sophie looks past the smile. "He wanted to come, really. I could tell," she says.

For a long moment, Richard says nothing.

He hasn't seen his friend in half a year. Half of him is glad about it, since he doesn't know what words he can possibly say after how they parted. Doesn't think he'll be able to stumble past the shame and embarrassment to form something resembling speech.

Doesn't even know if he'll be able to look him in the eye.

Even now the memory flashes before him, curling Richard's insides like burnt bits of tinder. The night of the wedding, he hadn't slept, and as soon as the first light of dawn came Richard had left, escaping what was likely to be the most awkward breakfast that ever was. Yet he couldn't escape the memories of that night, of Asbel's face, shocked and appalled as he stumbled upon his debauchery.

"Well, he's a married man. And getting ready to be a father as well now. I understand," Richard says.

And Sophie knows, too, when he's so obviously lying.

Her brow crinkles and she presses her lips together. She says, "Richard…"

"He creating a real family now, after all. I can't monopolise his time like I used to."

"Richard… you don't really think that way, do you?"

He used to. He remembers how it felt as they all travelled together. Like they were one big family. They looked after one another. They cared about one another. And Richard had ignored the advisors dropping pointed hints about heirs and arrangements, because he'd already had a family.

And it hadn't mattered one iota whether they were related by blood, or by marriage.

And then Asbel had come to him that night, and told him he had something he needed to tell him. They'd sat in his bedroom like they would any other night, the mattress dipped beside him, and Asbel had told him with wide eyes like he was surprised himself, "I'm getting married, Richard. I'm marrying Cheria."

And Richard had meant to protest, or say something, but his throat closed up like a shut casket, and all he'd been able to do was choke out his congratulations.

Asbel delivered the final blow, "I'd love for you to be my best man, Richard. It would mean so much to me."

It would mean so much to him, so what else could Richard say but yes?

Sophie's touch pulls him back to the present, her fingers digging into the fine material of his sleeve. "Richard… you don't need to pretend everything is okay," she said. He didn't realise there were tears in his eyes until Sophie brushed them away with her thumb. Gently.

"I—I'm sorry Sophie. I hate that you have to see me like this."

Sophie shakes her head with vehemence. "It's okay not to be okay," she says. And she puts her arms around him and Richard sinks into the gesture. He feels her hand stoking her hair and the the thought strikes— to be comforted, by Sophie, of all people!

But although once it would have been ludicrous, things are different now.

By the time he finally pulls away, some of the awful weight that's been building up in his chest, pushing against his lungs and making it hard to breathe has been eased.

And when he smiles at her, it's not a fake smile anymore.

"That's better," says Sophie.

"You're a treasure. You know that Sophie?"

She cocks her head. "Why do you say that?"

He simply puts his arm out to her. "Let's get out of this stuffy office. You've come all this way to visit, so let's do something fun. What do you say to crablettes in the garden?"

Her answering smile is like the sun coming out. "Royal crablettes?" she asks, linking her arm with the King's like school chums.

"Oh, yes. The most royal of all royal crablettes. They taste almost imperial…"

* * *

Servants watch on in surprise. For the first time in months, King Richard leaves the confines of his office and his council chambers and comes out into the garden.

Sophie thinks, _So it really is that bad._

Asbel might not have noticed anything off about the lack of correspondence from the King, but she had. Even Hubert, when he stopped by Lhant on a visit to see his family had remarked that Richard was not well. "He's working himself too hard," he said, and Sophie had seen the glimmer of something like guilt in Asbel's eyes.

"He's thinner," said the Captain, pausing between his stories before bedtime.

"I dunno. Somethin' seems kinda off about him lately," Pascal had said, hammering away at the new communicator for the growing Lhant family.

So Sophie had written to him, and his response had come back swiftly. He was fine, just busy, terribly sorry he couldn't make time to stop by Lhant right now. He was fine and he hoped the flower seeds he'd sent her were coming out well. She'd have to forgive his absence lately but please not to worry about him. He was fine.

Sophie knew better.

So after dinner, she came to the nursery where Asbel was up the stepladder, repainting the nursery for a third time in a different shade of blue. "I'm going to visit Richard. I'm worried about him," she said.

"Oh," replied Asbel, as the smile faded from his face. Sophie waited a long moment, but he said nothing.

"You're not coming?" she asked.

"N-no. I'd like to visit, but…" he set down his paintbrush. "I don't know. I think it's best I don't."

"I bet he misses you," Sophie told him.

"Yeah," said Asbel. "I know."

So Sophie had packed her things and alone she'd taken the boat to Barona. And standing on deck with the wind scooping underneath her long hair she'd put her hands on the calloused wooden railing and closed her eyes. She imagined that day, years ago, when two children had run away on adventure, all to see their friend.

Their friend, who, "— doesn't sleep more than a few hours a night. He barely eats. He spends every day holed up in that office of his," Duke Dalen confided, as the two of them stood in an unused room in the castle. "He's desperate to make amends for the Lambda incident, but I fear for his health…"

Something shifts in Sophie's heart as she thinks of Richard in his darkened office, working alone. She presses her hand to her chest.

"It hurts," she said.

"Pardon?" said Dalen.

She wants Richard to be happy.

Walking in the gardens with Richard, looking up at the tired hollows etched under his eyes, her grip on his arm tightens.

* * *

Nearly a year ago, Richard spoke to the chief gardener and told him about the sopheria bed he wanted planted. The gardener weakly protested that it wouldn't fit with the colour scheme of the garden, but in the end, the King was the King.

It's high summer now and the garden is bursting with leaves and life and the sopherias are in full bloom. Beside him, Sophie beams, and it makes it all worth it.

Richard picks the loveliest flower and tucks it behind her ear, in the hair that's now so long she has to braid it so it doesn't drag along the floor. She answers by returning the gesture, popping a flower into his yellow locks.

Richard smiles the biggest smile he's smiled in weeks.

* * *

The chef makes crablettes and they sit out under the shade of the gazebo to eat. It takes Sophie less than a minute to devour the whole plate.

When she's eaten the whole lot, she blurts, "Asbel always steps on my flowers. Do you know how many times he's done it, even though I tell him not to?" Richard has no chance to respond before she does it herself, cheeks puffed up and irritated, "Twenty-seven times. I counted. It makes me so… so…"

"Aggravated? Annoyed?" Richard supplies.

"Yes," she says, deflating. Asking, voice twinged with guilt, "But is that okay? To get annoyed with someone you love? Does it… mean you don't love them anymore?"

Richard would laugh, but he sees the concern tucked between Sophie's brow and knows how serious this question is.

"No, Sophie," he says. "It doesn't mean you love him any less. The two feelings are not exclusive. No one person is perfect. Not Asbel. And definitely not myself."

Sophie's still looking at him with concern, but now the feeling is directed towards him.

"You're a good person, Richard," she tells him.

"Am I, really?" he asks.

As he speaks he thinks about the damage he did the world that even now he still hasn't completely repaired. No matter how many evenings he spends at his desk, burning down the bit of cryas in his lamp to ash. He thinks about the mess he's made of his relationship with the kindest, most generous soul in the world and how he took Asbel's friendship and sullied it, how he's so damnably weak, how he despises himself, and—

"Richard."

Sophie's small, soft hand grips his tightly. Pulls him back from the whirlpool of self-hatred that, so often, tries to drag him in.

"You are. I don't lie." She speaks with such sincerity that it's hard not to believe her.

He squeezes back, in a silent thank you. "I know you don't, Sophie."

* * *

They eat so many crablettes that they skip out on dinner, and when night falls they go back to Richard's room with arms piled with snacks pilfered from the kitchen and all their favourite books from the secret fort.

"Can we build a fort here, tonight?" Sophie asks.

Richard doesn't see why not.

They pull the sheets from the spare linen closet, much to the bewilderment of Helga, the chief of staff. They make curtains around the four-poster bed and pile up enough feather pillows to get lost inside.

They spend hours reading and talking together that Richard begins to doze off, a book on his lap.

When he comes to, he sees Sophie hanging over him, hair falling like the tassles of a lampshade, staring hard.

"Something on my face?" he asks, lips curling up into a grin.

"You have bags under your eyes," she says, blunt. The same thing he's seen on the lips of countless others but they have been polite to say. "Haven't you been sleeping well?"

"Not exactly," he says.

Sophie gives him _that_ look.

"I have, perhaps, neglected myself a little while I've been wrapped up with work," he hedges.

" _Richard_."

"Alright. A lot," Richard confesses.

Her lips press together in that way that tells him she's cross. "That's no reason not to sleep. What is that's so important?"

He doesn't want to tell her that it's easier to work than to lay in bed and think. Easier to bury himself in his duties than to think about the guilt, the shame.

But, he doesn't need to tell her that.

She presses her lips together more thinly. "That's it. I've decided," she says.

"Oh?"

She lays down next to him and pulls a pillow to herself. "I'm staying here tonight. Otherwise as soon as I'm gone you'll go back to your office and work. So I'm staying here and I'm going to make sure you get some sleep."

When he opens his mouth to protest that she doesn't need to go that far, she shoots him such a withering look that he decides he's not going to argue.

Instead he smiles wanly and settles his head against the pillow.

"Thanks, Sophie," he says.

* * *

That night, Richard gets a full night sleep, and wakes feeling more refreshed than he has in months. He sleeps until bright light streams through the window and there's something soft and warm against his chest. He opens his eyes to see Sophie curled up against his chest, fingers dug into his pyjamas, her legs tangled round his.

Miraculously, the flower he tucked into her hair is still there, missing a few petals and flattened as though it's been pressed. Richard leans over a plants a kiss there on her temple, right where the flower is growing.


	3. echo effect

_Part II: echo effect_

* * *

"Aww, c'mon, I said I was sorry, Asbel! Like I said, I only stepped away for like one second, and he just totally vanished."

"How on earth could you have lost him?" Asbel asks, as he strides through the Lhant manor, Pascal trailing him with a sheepish grin. "I mean, a drunken King cannot be that easy to lose. Cheria asked you to keep an eye on him."

"To be fair, Asbel, what happened the last time you left me with some kind of responsibility?" Pascal says.

A fair point. It'd taken weeks to get all the banana pie out of his favourite white coat. And even now, it was never going to be as white as it once was.

"Just go take another look in the garden, Pascal. I'll finish checking here. I expect he's just passed out somewhere."

"Aye-aye!"

Richard so rarely let his hair down that it'd been a novelty to see the King quite so tipsy. Except he'd quickly moved past the tipsy stage very fast, and earlier Cheria and come to find him with an alarmed look on her face, telling Asbel she'd found him crying in the garden. Refusing to tell anyone what was wrong.

And now he'd just up and vanished.

He'd played it down to Pascal, but Asbel is worried. Richard had smiled and laughed as freely as he always did, but something had seemed off about him all night.

Cheria had got so tired of his fretting and pacing that she'd just about kicked him out of their suite. "Just go and see him, Asbel. I'm sure he'll tell you what's wrong if you ask."

"But—" Asbel had protested. Tonight was their wedding night. And sure, he was worried about Richard, and did want to talk to him, but…

"Just go," Cheria said, giving him a big shove off the bed. "Besides… I'll still be here when you get back."

And Asbel had grinned, and slipping back on his shirt went to go see his friend.

Only for Pascal to throw her hands up and tell him that Richard was missing. Something about stepping away for just a sec and a mecha and a chicken.

Ugh.

Nobody has seen Richard for the past half an hour. Hubert's been busy moping and for some reason Sophie's sat under the tablecloth with Captain Malik telling scary stories.

He's not in his room, either, but Asbel thinks to check the rooms upstairs briefly, in case Richard was so drunk he forgot where he his room was and fell asleep somewhere else.

It's when he's heading down the corridor that he hears it. His name, muffled behind the door.

"Richard? Are you there?"

"Asbel!" The way Richard says his name makes him reach for the door handle, panic rising in his chest. It sounds like Richard is hurt, or in pain.

He throws the door open, reaching to his hip for the sword belt that isn't there, ready to throw himself at whatever assailant might be behind the door.

What he sees isn't what he expects.

To say in the least.

His friend is pinned to the bed by a stranger— a man— completely naked. His head is thrown back with passion, golden hair spilt on the pillow. Fingers clawing at his back. But what steals the breath from Asbel's lungs is the way those bitten lips part to sculpt his own name— "Asbel—" he says, the word spilling in a needful, lustful gasp, "God, Asbel!"

Asbel's hand slips from where he was grasping for his sword belt.

Richard's eyes, squeezed closed in passion slip open, and gaze at him clouded with pleasure without seeing.

Then they focus, and Richard's mouth opens in horror, an expression that Asbel is sure that is mirrored on his own face.

Not that he's thinking that. Not that he's thinking anything. Resounding in his ears like a trapped echo is his own name on Richard's lips.

Shock hits him as Richard's lover turns to stare at him, and he realises— the man looks a little like himself.

Richard opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it.

Asbel lets his eyes slip closed for a second, attempting to process any of this. When he can't, he opens them. "Sorry to disturb you," he stammers, quickly retreating and closing the door behind him with a click.

He steadies himself against the wall, pressing his forehead to the plastering. Tries to even his breathing. Cannot hear anything over the thundering blood in his ears.

A few minutes later, he makes his way back to his wedding suite and sits on the bed, the mattress sinking down beneath him.

Cheria— his wife- is curled up on the bed, gazing up at him with a sleepy contented expression. She holds her hand out to him, and he takes it.

"Everything okay, Asbel?" she asks, face pinching slightly as she looks up at him.

But Asbel can't even see her. "Y-yeah," he says.

* * *

But as the weeks pass, it becomes more evident: everything isn't okay.

The morning after the wedding he dithers so long before breakfast, trying to decide whether to confront Richard or pretend like everything was normal that by the time he comes downstairs, Richard has already left.

Like he could pretend everything was normal.

But with Richard back in Barona, he can focus on being busy being a lord, and a husband, and soon after that, preparing to be a father.

It's easier to busy himself in preparations for the baby than to think about the fact that he hasn't spoken to, or even seen his best friend in six months.

It's easier to throw himself into his role of lord of Lhant than to dwell on the way Richard's lips had sculpted his name.

Other people begin to notice, of course.

Cheria comes to perch on the side of his desk, and he looks away from his paperwork to give her a tender kiss, stroking her growing bump.

"Asbel, I've been wondering. Did something happen between you and Richard?" she asks, and it's like a lead weight has been dropped in his stomach.

"Ah, no. Why do you ask?"

"It's just we haven't heard from him lately. And you haven't been talking about him so much. Usually it's Richard this, Richard that…" she laughs.

"Do I really… talk about him that much?"

She fixes him with a look. "Asbel, before you proposed to me I was half convinced you were going to ask him to marry you."

"W-what?"

"Kidding," she says, before she kisses him again. "Now, what do you want me to make for dinner?"

So Richard continues to evade visits to the Lhant household, and Asbel evades thinking of him.

Sophie, however, regularly goes to Barona to visit Richard. She visits for weeks at a time, and when she returns she'll find Asbel, and repeat all the things she and Richard got up to, and Asbel's heart will clench because he misses Richard and what they had together, and because even after all this time he still hasn't figured out what to say to him to fix it.

But then the baby is born, a healthy little boy they call Eric— probably the most the doted on child in Lhant, surrounded by Sophie, Lady Kerri and Frederic. And then Asbel wears not just the roles of a lord and a husband, he slips on the clothes of a father, too.

It's everything his parents wanted of him, and burning his candle late working for his hometown and his family, Lady Kerri tells him just how proud she is of her son. "If only your father could see you now, Asbel," she says.

When their friends visit to see the child, Richard sends a note. Reading over his congratulations again and again, Asbel tries to picture the man who wrote them. The congratulations are heart-felt, and yet Asbel wonders why his heart twists when he reads them.

* * *

 _Dear Richard,_

…Asbel writes. It's late. The eleth lamp is spluttering through the last bit of cryas, and Cheria went to bed an hour ago.

 _I want to go back to how things were. Would you come to Lhant, soon, so we can talk? Or I can come to Barona? I_

But what on earth would they even talk about?

Asbel screws up the letter, and throws it in the bin. He starts again.

 _Richard,_ _Can we just please forget everything and go back to normal? Sophie's planted some roses in the garden, and I'd love for you to meet Eric._

Even he knows what a huge lie this is, and it joins the growing discarded pile.

 _Richard,_ _I miss you._

It's the most honest of all the dozen letters he's written tonight, but it joins the bin with all the rest.

* * *

In the end, Asbel does not send a single letter, and he hears nothing from Richard either, apart from that single perfunctory note of congratulations that Asbel has spent hours scrutinising, searching every line of the King's penmanship for some secret meaning.

It's almost a year after the wedding that Richard comes to Lhant again, for Sophie's birthday.

Cheria, who thinks Richard and Asbel have had some sort of fight, puts a hand on his shoulder. "Don't you think it's about time the two of you made up?" she asks.

"Yeah," he agrees, though if they'd had a fight it would have been easier to make up than this… whatever this is they've found themselves entangled in.

Sophie's birthday is on the first day of spring, because she picked it herself and spring is her favourite season; the time when all the dead things outside come back to life and everything is green again.

When the turtlez transport arrives bearing the King, Sophie runs ahead down the driveway to greet him with an embrace. Behind her, on the steps with his mother and Cheria, Asbel gets the first sight of Richard. It feels like seeing him all over again after they were separated for all those years as children.

And he's taken aback by just how good Richard looks. Because yes, objectively he's always known Richard was handsome, but watching him hug Sophie on the driveway he's struck by just how beautiful the King is.

But then there's no time to think because Richard is coming up the driveway and his mouth has gone dry and all the words he's planned on saying are gone. Cheria slips her hand into his, offering silent moral support (and oh God, if she only knew).

And Sophie does the same for Richard, reaching up to take his hand, and it's such a strange sight to see: the King of Windor hand in hand with his daughter. And there's something similar but not quite jealousy, because he's supposed to Richard's best friend. He's supposed to be the one to support him, and although it's been almost a year, Asbel still doesn't have a clue what to to say to him.

But then the moment is upon him and Richard's standing in front of him, and their eyes stumble into contact, and it's hard not to flinch away.

Cheria squeezes his hand.

"Richard… it's good to see you again," he says.

"The same to you, Asbel. It's been a while." Richard looks well and speaks with his old warmth, though there's a guardedness about him that's new.

Asbel knows he should make some small talk. Ask about Barona, or how he's been, but the words vanish in his throat. He looks at Richard, and Richard meets his gaze with guarded eyes, with something stirring behind them, until Lady Kerri clears her throat.

"What on earth are we dawdling on the doorstep for? Your Majesty, please come in for tea."

And he chuckles, striding up the steps like he's never been away. "Very well, but only if we can drop the formalities, Kerri," he says.

By the time they've taken tea in the sitting room, and Sophie's dragged them around the garden to show Richard her new flowers, and they've sat down for dinner, Asbel has come to a realisation: that this situation is unbearable.

As much as he wishes this could all be swept under the rug, every time Richard uses his name he can hear the echo of that evening. He cannot look at Richard's face without imagining those eyes closed in near delirium.

And as the seconds on the grandfather clock tick loudly and everyone chats and catches up in words that are static in his ears, Asbel makes him up his mind.

As they finish dinner and Richard's about to head upstairs, Asbel reaches out for his arm. His breath catches in his throat, but he swallows it down. Steels himself. "Richard, we need to talk."

Richard hesitates, and something slips behind his guarded eyes. "Asbel…"

"Please, Richard."

It doesn't take long for Richard to acquiesce. "Very well."

As they head outside to talk in private, Cheria squeezes him a reassuring smile. He smiles back.

He's going to make everything right again.

* * *

But for a long moment, neither of them say anything.

They sit in the back garden on the bench, not too close. All the things they can't say breathing between them.

Suddenly, Asbel speaks. It's abrupt, and almost violent: "You remember, don't you? How we promised, us and Sophie, how we'd always be friends?"

There's a wry smile tugging in the corner of Richard's mouth, pulled down by the weight of everything else he's feeling. "You say that like you think I've forgotten."

"Right," says Asbel. And then just abruptly, "So can't we just forget about all of this? Just… go back to how things were?"

He's been staring fixedly away, but now he forces himself to look at his friend. Richard bites at his lip. Conflicted.

At last he says, "No."

"No?" Asbel splutters.

"I just… don't see how we can, Asbel." And he looks Asbel in the eye, and for the first time today Asbel sees past the guard Richard's put up, to all the pain and confliction inside him. "In the future it might be different. But, I'm sure you're aware… after what happened… about the kind of feelings I have for you."

"Oh," says Asbel, and slowly he nods. "Yeah… I guess I did."

Asbel watches as Richard knots his hands in his lap. Sees the tension in them. "I can only apologise to you as deeply as I can about my behaviour. I never intended for you to find out… and certainly in a manner such as that."

"No, that's…" he wants to tell Richard that's it's fine. But, Richard's right. It's not fine. And that's kind of the point. He stares down at his own hands, folded around the curve of his knees.

Instead he asks, "Why… did you never say anything to me before?"

"You were interested in Cheria. I didn't want to compromise our friendship… although," he puts a hand to his head, fingers parting his hair. "I managed to do that fairly spectacularly myself, anyway."

A strange feeling of regret washes over Asbel. Almost as though…

Richard squeezes his hands together in his lap, knuckles whitening, his lips pressed tightly together. Asbel wants to reach out. To put his hand on his and comfort him with the ease and simplicity he once took for granted.

He almost wants to tell Richard how ridiculous this is. All the things they've gone through together… and this thing between them is what divides them.

And yet he doesn't. Because it isn't fair to Richard, and despite everything, he can't bear to cause his friend pain.

So he lets his hand fall down onto his lap, and lets the silence seep back between them. Wishing he could do… say… _something_. Something to fix all of this.

"'Sorry," he says at last.

Richard stares at him like he's cracked. "Why on earth are you apologising, Asbel?"

"Because I've been a bad friend. You were in pain… and I didn't even notice."

"I can't blame you for that when I never said anything to you myself, Asbel," Richard says.

But Asbel shakes his head. "But that's the thing. I did know. Sort of. Kind of. On the day of my knighting ceremony, there was something…"

There was a strange quality to the memories of that day, when Asbel thought back. A kind of brightness.

It'd been a truly perfect day.

And yet, until this very second, Asbel had never thought why that might have been.

And why, after the day of his wedding, he'd lost that feeling. He'd thrown himself so fully into the roles waiting for him that that he'd never given himself time to dwell on it. Not until now, with Richard sitting beside him, so close yet so far away. And, if he didn't do something, about to slip away from him forever.

Fingers tighten round the material of his trousers. "I've missed you this year, Richard. I mean, everything's been fine. But it's just not been… the same, without you." He glances up at Richard to see his brow crumpled. He's not being fair to him. But all the same, he carries on: "I need you, Richard."

Richard's look pierces him. "So you want to just pretend none of this ever happened?"

"No… I mean, maybe. I don't know," Asbel admits.

Richard shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Asbel. As I said, maybe… in the future, things will be easier…"

But Asbel doesn't want to wait. "But— Richard—"

"What is it you want, Asbel?"

The memory lances through his mind, hot and sharp and piercing. Richard, his head thrown back. Richard— with his name—

"I…"

He can't answer. He's never has been able to.

As he stares down at the ground, Richard stands.

And Asbel makes the split second decision that he can't let him just walk away. His fingers close around around Richard's sleeve. "Richard, please—"

Richard hesitates.

And Asbel pulls Richard close to him and kisses him, hard. Crushes his friend beneath his lips, pinning him against the rose trellis. Something is stabbing into his hand, but Asbel can't feel it. Only think of Richard, Richard, Richard—

Richard, who is hard, cold marble beneath him.

Asbel pulls back, shocked out of his kissing-induced stupor by just how angry Richard looks. He hasn't seen him look so angry since…

Asbel doesn't want to think of that time.

But then the anger fades and worse, hurt takes its place. He folds his arms against Asbel, hands gripping his forearms to hold himself together.

"You're a husband and a father, Asbel," Richard tells him, and his voice is uneven as cracked flagstones. "What are you thinking? Don't you know what this will do to Cheria?"

He's right, of course.

Asbel wishes he knows he knew what he was thinking.

All he'd thought was that… "I just didn't want you to go."

"It's too late for that, Asbel."

And before Asbel can protest weakly, Richard shoots him one last, pained look and stalks away across the garden.

He's right. It's too late. Far too late for any of this.

He sits, heavily, on the garden bench. Puts his head in his hands as the realisation sat on the tip of his tongue for more than a year crashes over him.

He's a husband, a father, and a lord, and Asbel doesn't want any of it.


	4. the weight of snow

_Part IV: the weight of snow_

* * *

Stood out on the balcony at Barona castle, Asbel buried his head in his hands, mortification heating his body.

"Asbel?" said Richard. He heard the door click closed as his friend came to join him outside.

"Why, God, why?" Asbel said. "And the Marquess, of all people…!"

"Asbel?"

"Ugh. Just. Richard, kill me now, please. At least then I can't embarrass myself anymore."

Richard chuckled. Asbel pulled his face out of his hands to see him snickering at his misfortune.

Earlier that day, Richard had formally knighted him. Now it was his party and Asbel faced the greatest challenge since he and his friends had faced the might of Fodra itself…

…Dancing.

"I've never been more embarrassed in my life. I mean, I just tripped over her dress. Ugh."

"I admit I'm unsure why you had such issue, Asbel. You'd been getting quite good when practised together."

"But you don't wear a dress, Richard."

"Oh? So you're blaming the dress for all of this?" The curve of smile.

Asbel didn't answer this. Instead he asked, "Is she alright?"

"Cheria used her healing artes. She's quite alright, now. Just in some shock."

Asbel coloured all over again. "I told you this was a bad idea, Richard. I can't go out there again and maim any more guests at my own party."

"You'll be fine, Asbel. Just… try to calm down. You get nervous, and you start treading over people. Just pretend it's like the two of us practising."

"But that's the problem. I don't feel nervous when I'm with you…" Asbel muttered.

Richard chuckled, covering it with his hand. "Come on. Let's practice a little now."

Richard put his hands out for him, and muttering something about how he didn't think it was going to help, Asbel took the position they'd been pracising all week.

And somehow, although he'd been falling over his partners in the dance hall, it was different with Richard. He moved with him, his hand on his waist, close enough to feel the warmth of Richard's body.

"See," said Richard, "you're perfectly fine."

When they stopped, Asbel didn't take his hand away from Richard's waist. They stood like that, for a long time.

"Today's been perfect. Thank you, Richard."

"It was the least I could do, for the friend you've been to me Asbel. I'm sorry I had put you through all those dance lessons."

"No, not at all!" said Asbel. "I mean, I know I kind of trod on you a lot at first but it was really fun. I love spending time with everyone, but it was great for it to be just the two of us for a change. I had a good time."

"As did I," said Richard.

There was a warm summer evening breeze out on the veranda, and Asbel let his his touch linger.

Although he still had the responsibilities of being a Lord and couldn't become a knight in more than just a title, Richard had known how much that dream meant to him. Even if didn't do anything, the gesture moved something inside of Asbel.

Neither he, nor Richard, moved away for a long time.

* * *

A loud, piercing scream wakes Asbel.

It's tempting to pull the pillow over his head and roll over, but Asbel forces himself out of the warmth of the bed, and the blankets warmed by his body heat. Cheria stirs beside him, and he mumbles, "S' alright. I'll see to him."

The winter night air stabs at his skin as he slips onto the bare floor. Asbel pulls his dressing gown on, still half asleep, threading his arm through the wrong holes for several moments, before he pulls it on inside-out.

He trudges next door to the nursery, walls spilling with the flowers Sophie's painted on every spare crack of white. He leans over the cot, where Eric's pulling at his nightclothes and screaming mercilessly.

"Buddy, it's two in the morning. Can't we get at least a few more hours?"

Apparently not, if the continued screaming is anything to go by.

So Asbel scoops Eric up, and the baby is surprised enough to cease screaming, instead changing to a whimper.

"When are you going to be old enough to tell me what is is you want, huh?"

The baby sniffles.

Asbel sighs and sinks down, his back to the cot, rubbing at his eyes.

"It's alright. I'm here," Asbel says. Eric finally quietens, and Asbel leans his head back against the uncomfortable bars of the crib.

More than several nights, he's fallen asleep here, like this, with god awful neck ache in the morning. Although Eric can be an angel some days, on others it's more like a devil. He's fussy and needy, and never seems to get enough attention.

Asbel's only twenty years old, but everyone seems to need him these days. He's got not just his wife and his son, but the entirety of Lhant depending on his leadership.

Sometimes, it doesn't feel like there's enough hours in the day.

And the only person he wishes did need him doesn't need him at all.

It's been months since Sophie's birthday. A year and a half since his wedding. Two years since he and Richard stood on that veranda the night of his knighting ceremony, and he fell in love with the King.

Even if it's taken him this long to understand what that feeling was.

It's not like he doesn't love Cheria or Eric— bouncing bundle of snot that he can be. And he's aware how lucky he is. He's a lord, with a beautiful, kind-hearted wife who loves him and a son to dote upon. It's the perfect life.

And yet it's not his life he's living.

He bounces Eric gently in his arms, and the baby drifts to sleep against his dressing gown.

There's an unreal quality to the days that pass. Something about it that feels insubstantial, like a facade against brick.

It's ironic. He ran away from it when he was twelve years old, and yet somehow, he's ended up living the life his father wanted for him anyway.

* * *

The invite surprises them all when it arrives.

"Malik… getting married?" Cheria asks. They're at breakfast, and the letter is in one hand and in the other, a spoon full of baby food that now slops onto the ground.

Eric doesn't seem to bothered about it. He's always been way too fussy.

"Why does he want to do that?" Sophie asks, wiping Eric's face with a napkin.

He gurgles in response.

Naturally, he likes Sophie better than either of his parents. The fact that she shamelessly spoils him with attention helps.

"He says he's marrying a woman called Jeannine," Cheria says, more baby food slopping onto the floor.

"Jeannine?" Asbel mumbled, mouth stuffed with scrambled egg. He swallowed it down. "I always thought it'd be Major Victoria."

"Oh! She's an Amarcian," says Cheria, eyes on the letter. "Do you think she's a relation of Pascal?"

"Will Pascal come to the wedding?" Sophie asks.

"He says everyone's invited."

Everyone.

"Where abouts?" asks Asbel.

"Zavhert. Sounds like a pretty grim place to hold a wedding, if you ask me."

"They should have had it at the Amarcian Enclave," says Sophie. "Then we could have a sleepover at Pascal's house."

"Hm.. I'm not sure I'd want to stay at her house," Asbel says, setting down his fork. "I remember Fourier telling me about flesh eating plant she found in there once."

"Oh. He says the wedding's next month," says Cheria, frowning. "I don't think Eric's ready to travel yet, especially not as far to Fendel. And the winter's already so bad this year."

"You're not coming, Cheria?" Sophie says, visibly disappointed.

"I'm sure Mum would be happy to have Eric while we're away," Asbel says.

But Cheria shakes her head. "I've been thinking recently we depend on Kerri too much. As much as I'd like to go and meet Malik's mystery bride, I think I ought to stay here."

Asbel hesitates. "I'll stay here with you, too."

She shakes her head quickly. "No, you go Asbel. What will Malik think if neither of us goes? You should go with Sophie. I'm sure you'll have a great time."

Sophie leans forward in her seat. "Will Hubert and Richard come, too?"

"He says he's invited them."

Asbel picks up his knife and fork, and slowly, goes back to eating his scrambled egg he'd been shovelling in with gusto just moments before.

He can no longer taste it.

* * *

That night, Cheria perches on the edge of the bed, brushing out the hair which now falls below her shoulders.

Asbel climbs into their bed, and asks, "Are you sure you're alright with staying here by yourself? I don't want to just abandon you with Eric."

She smiles, and climbs into bed. "You make it sound like you're leaving us to fend ourselves against wolves. We'll have your mother and Grandfather to keep us company. And… besides." Their eyes meet. "I've been thinking… maybe, it be helpful to spend some time apart."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it's because we've been spending every day together… or maybe because of the baby. Maybe this is something every couple goes through…" she trails off, and Asbel takes her hand.

"Cheria, talk to me."

"I just feel like you don't seem as interested in me as you used to be," she says, looking him directly in the eye.

"What?"

She holds up her hands. "I just mean… when we kiss, something seems different. And you don't seem as interested in…" she doesn't need to finish for Asbel to get the gist.

"Cheria…"

He kisses her, and when he pulls back, she just smiles sadly and says, "See?"

He can't bring himself to deny it.

* * *

So next month, he and Sophie travel to Fendel, alone.

They stand on the deck of the boat as they approach the Fendel dock, the icy cold wind stinging their faces. And there's a kind of elation in being away from Lhant. With the two of them, it's almost like the old days.

"Are you cold, Sophie? You can wear my jacket if you want," he says.

She shakes her head. "I'm fine, Asbel." And then she asks, "Do you think you and Richard will ever be friends again?"

"I don't know," Asbel says honestly. "What do you think?"

She thinks hard. "I don't know, Asbel."

"When you go to see Richard… does he…" Asbel asks, shooting her a stealthy and guilty look, "does he ever mention me?"

She thinks again.

"No," she says.

* * *

A winter storm chases them all the way to the port, and by the time they reach the capital it's become unrelenting. It lashes the cold flagstones and severe metallic angles of Zavert in a furious tempest, windows shuttered and barred against the cold.

But it still manages to creep in.

As ambassador to Fendel and Chancellor Eigen, Malik owns a large house on the outskirts of Fendel, complete with what people are beginning to refer to as the _Pascal_ Heating System. It's not as big as the Lhant manor, but it's close, with enough room for all of their friends. The floors are all in cobalt grey and there's a mechanical severity to it, a feeling of the formulaic you wouldn't see in Lhant.

There they meet the woman Malik is marrying. Instead of the younger women Malik usually goes for, she's a few years older than him. Jeannine has the same multi-coloured hair all the Amarcians have, and a kind of grace he never would have expected in Malik's partner.

Malik seems just as surprised, however.

Asbel had been sure Malik would be an eternal bachelor, but when he raises the topic, he shrugs. "When you know, you know," is all he says.

Asbel can only think how true that is, the day Richard arrives. He comes in with a cold draft and a flurry of ice and snow, and there's crystals sticking to his hair and clothes.

He gives Asbel's hand a warm but perfunctory squeeze, and he nods. "Good to see you, Asbel."

"Y-you too, Richard."

It's true, Asbel thinks. When you know, you know.

* * *

A lot can change in just a few short years.

That's the thought that teeters on the forefront of Asbel's mind as dinner is served on steaming dishes. He thought Malik an eternal bachelor, now sitting side by side with Jeannine with such an easiness it's as though they've been together years. Hubert no longer looks after Pascal with a wistful gaze and Sophie no longer has the eyes of a child. She looks and she sees, with a piercing intelligence that so often puts himself to shame.

And as for himself and Richard…

The King of Windor smiles often and laughs freely. There's a healthy glow to his skin and when he talks of things in Barona there's a smile on his face.

It's only when his eyes catch against Asbel's the smile becomes very slightly fixed, the eyes no longer retaining their usual warmth.

"So, Richard," says Malik, "it's about time you stopped playing coy. How long is it until we attend your wedding?"

Asbel's glad he doesn't have anything in his mouth, because he's certain otherwise he would have choked on it.

"Goodness. I didn't realise I'd officially announced anything like that…" Richard says with a chuckle.

Pascal slams her hands on the table with such dramatic force that Asbel jumps. "You're getting married, Richard?"

"Well, the cat's out of the bag now." Richard sets his fork down on the plate and folds his hands on his lap. "Nothing's been announced yet, but as my friends you ought to be the first to know. I'm going to marrying Lady Isabelle. She's Duke Dalen's neice."

Silence follows this announcement, cracked open by Pascal's cry of, "Well congrat-ulations, Richard! That's so totally awesome, and I'm like, totally invited, right?"

"Naturally, you're all invited. I've already spoken to the chef to make sure there's banana pie on standby just for you, Pascal."

She snaps her fingers. "Aww, you totally know me, Richard!"

Everyone offers their heartfelt congratulations. Hubert congratulates him on finding a suitable partner and Malik raises a toast. Sophie puts her hand on his and looks at him carefully, before offering her own. And slowly Asbel sets down his cutlery. And finds Richard's eyes on him, as though gauging his response.

Was this how Richard felt, the night he sat down by his side in the King's chamber and told him he was marrying Cheria? Did he too feel this crushing weight in his chest, so tight it squeezed all words out of him?

He wants to ask so many things: does he love Lady Isabelle? Was this something he'd been pressured into by his advisors?

Does he still seek out men with faces like his, and when he calls out is it with Asbel's name on his lips?

But the weight on his chest is so tight it's all he can do to manage out a single word.

"Congratulations," he offers weakly.

* * *

Outside, the force of the shearing wind ploughs down a tree. Snow sloughs against shuttered and battered windows. A whistle blows, and ships stop leaving the port. The storm is growing.


	5. the frozen world

_Part V: the frozen world_

Before he found his bride, King Richard turned down more than a dozen eligible girls. They came to the castle, and then they left: beautiful girls, young girls, intelligent girls. They looked at him with admiration and hopeful eyes, and because of that, Richard turned them all down.

In the end, he chose Lady Isabelle because she'd looked at him with none of that, and in fact had told him point blank she was only here "because Uncle Dalen asked me. Don't expect me to fawn over you like the rest of the girls from the countryside are doing. I might be from the boonies, but I am no bumpkin."

Richard allowed a small smile to slip across his face. Sat across the elaborate candelabra, Lady Isabelle truly was the force he'd heard rumour of. There was no rosy blush upon her cheeks as she gazed up at the King. Instead she set her shoulders back, gazing him in the eye proudly.

"No, you most certainly are not," Richard agreed, and Lady Isabelle's brow furrowed.

"King Richard, let us get straight to the point. This meeting is completely pointless. I imagine you've invited me here in respect for my uncle, but I'm am not what you might refer to 'wife material.'"

Richard set down his cutlery and folded his gloved hands on the table. "Very well. I'll get to the point, as you wish. Lady Isabelle, if you are not 'wife material' then I am not 'husband material.' Do I need to elaborate any further?"

The touch of disdain vanished as Lady Isabelle lent forward on her elbows, looking at Richard in a new interest.

"I don't pay much heed to rumour, but I did hear an interesting one," she said. "About the close relationship between our King and the Lord of Lhant…"

"Completely unfounded," Richard said, a touch more sharply than he intended.

"Hm." Lady Isabelle shot him a look that told him she didn't believe him for a second. "King Richard, if we're going to consider something as serious as an offer of marriage, let us be completely clear with one another. I take it you are inferring that we may keep our own lovers?"

"I would not interfere with whatever romantic entrapments you wished to enter into."

"Oh, I assure you, no man will ever come between Claire and I. I assume you would wish for the same arrangement? That I should turn a blind eye to your own lovers?"

"No," said Richard.

"Pardon?"

"On that front, you need not fear. I have no interest in taking any lovers. Male or female."

Light reflected off Lady Isabelle's eyes as she took in the man before her curiously who offered such a lopsided see-saw of a marriage contract.

"Lord Asbel is a foolish man," she concluded.

* * *

"Hah! Take that. Four aces. Now cough up, Hu."

In Fendel, the weather worsens. It's clear now that this is no ordinary winter storm. It's a blizzard that's driving in.

And trapped in Malik's home, they're stuck right in the middle of it. With only a battered set of playing cards, a book about cocktail making, and Malik's secret stash that Sophie's already managed to find and asked lots of uncomfortable questions about.

Hubert grumbles, digging deep in his pockets. "How in blazes is she so good at this?" he mutters to Richard, turning the whites of his pockets inside out.

Richard grins, until Pascal reveals the rest of her hand and it's him scraping for every last piece of gald he has left.

"Not a lot to do in an isolated enclave growing up," Pascal says, mouth split open in a shit-eating grin as she swings her feet up onto the coffee table, wriggling stocking-clad toes in smug satisfaction. Hubert eyes the large hole where her big toe pokes through with distaste, visibly swallowing down a comment about feet on the table he's swilling around his mouth like poison. "You end up gettin' re—ally good at rummy. Or you go crazy from boredom."

But he apparently can't bite this one back, because he huffs, "Oh? So that's the reason for your affliction, is it?"

"Humm, I dunno what you mean, Hu. Also, three kings. Show me the gold stuff."

"You cannot be serious—"

Richard bursts out into laughter, until he draws his next card, a pitiful one, and he's trying to pawn a brooch to her.

"C'mon, Richard, you're a king. Gotta be some good stuff in the royal treasury."

"You really think I would bet the royal bank against you in a game of rummy, Pascal?" Richard asks, raising an eyebrow as he settles more comfortably, crossing one leg over the other.

To which Pascal simply redirects his eye to Hubert scribbling numbers as he attempts to work out how much he can siphon from his military pension pot, muttering to himself about defending the pride of Strahta and how he wouldn't be beaten in a silly card game.

"Pascal." Richard fixes Pascal with a stern and pointed gaze. _Please stop Hubert before he gambles away his life savings._

She pouts, and Richard crosses his arms. _Spoilsport_ , she mouths, before she clears her throat.

"New rule! You can't bet anything you don't have on you here in Fendel."

"But I've already given you my eleth mixer and my limited edition Sunscreen Ranger cards. I have literally nothing else on me." His eyes are wide, ringed with an growing look of desperation.

A slow, languid shrug. "Guess I win then."

"There has to be something else…"

Richard's laughter becomes increasingly difficult to stifle. It's interesting how, for such a cool and logical man, Hubert can become completely undone by two things, 1) anything involving a sense of competition and 2) Pascal.

He'd wonder if the man was quite over his infatuation as he at first seemed, yet Richard of all people understands how complicated that issue can be.

Richard pulls his thoughts away before they begin to veer in the certain direction they've been tugging towards since he received Malik's invitation.

Trapped in the house with cause of these thoughts, however, is making this rather difficult. Especially when his eye will catch against Asbel's, and all the feelings he thought sunk will rise like a fish nibbling at the surface as if to say, _you didn't forget about me, right?_

That wistful thought was banished the instant Richard stepped through the front door, brushing the snow from his cloak, looking up to see Asbel standing on the stairs. The snow brushed away in powdery crystals, yet other things could not be so easily erased.

The words he said to Lady Isabelle were no lie. In the past year he's tried looking at other men. Even other women. Even tried partaking in the dance of courtship that seems to come so naturally to others. And yet…

"You said you've nothing else on you, but that ain't strictly true, Hu," Pascal says.

His baffled expression slowly morphs into one of utter indignation and horror. "Oh no. I refuse. You cannot be serious, woman—"

"Yeah, I am. Gimme the shirt, Hu."

* * *

There's an awkward scuffle in the corridor, Richard playing look-out and signalling _the coast is clear_ and Hubert hot-footing it up the stairs with only a clenched copy Mixology Weekly to preserve his modesty. Richard silently goes to pieces picturing Hubert, ram-rod straight at the desk of his commanding officer's desk, putting in a request for a new uniform.

 _And how exactly did you manage to lose it, Hubert?_

 _A force of nature, Sir._

He's cracking up when he hears from upstairs, a loud yelp.

"Wha—? Why are you naked, Hubert?"

"I'll have you know that's none of your business, brother—"

"But seriously— you're naked—"

"-And quite aware of that face, thank you very much. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

Two years ago Richard would have been hacking his guts up with laughter, except that now Asbel is coming down the stairs, scratching his head. There's no time to make a swift exit, and Asbel is looking straight at him.

They stare at one another.

At last, Asbel throws a thumb over his shoulder. "Uh… you wouldn't know why Hubert's naked… would you?"

"Pascal wouldn't take his military pension," Richard says, the words fumbling on a tongue as thick and dry as cotton wool.

A few weeks back, Richard had entertained the hope that maybe, after all this time, the two of them might be able to go back to some semblance of normality.

"Right." Asbel rocked on his heels.

Then again, from the beginning when Asbel burst in from his bedroom window, the two of them have never had anything that could be called a _normal_ relationship.

"I'll go see if Hubert needs me to lend him something to wear," Richard manages out, and he's half way to the stairs when Asbel's hand closes around the crook of his elbow. And yet even that is wrong, for Asbel's grip is both hesitant and shy.

"Asbel?" he manages to ask, and Asbel pulls his hand away.

"Actually, don't worry… you should go see Hubert."

Richard nods. He even manages to smile and tell him, "It's for the best."

There's something stirring in Asbel's eyes as he pushes his lips tightly together. "You… really believe that?"

"I'm still trying."

Before he knocks for Hubert, he stops before the wide enforced glass windows to look out into the snow, showing even now no sign of ceasing. It stirs something in his restless blood, the pounding snow beating to the sound of his own swelling heartbeat.

This locked, shut up stifling kind of feeling hauls him back to the years before he met Asbel, back when he'd lived in a frozen world. Immaculate; crystalline; cold. The same kind of anxious feeling is thick at the back of his throat, fingers fidgeting against the satin of his shirt-cuffs as he thinks on locked doors; hushed whispers, silence. His food, all taste-tested so he wouldn't be murdered by the uncle his father steadfastly refused to suspect. Intrigue, and reflections on still water, human connection barred to him behind a cold wall of respect and awful politeness.

"You really should forgive my brother, you know."

His bubble of introspection pops and sound rushes in. He turns to see Hubert striding up beside him, straightening his shirt collar, the residue of a flush still prominent under his jaw. "I don't know what happened between the two of you, but the mopey look he gets on his face whenever someone brings you up is starting to get wearing."

Richard lets a small smile float to the surface. "You really care about him, don't you?"

At one time Hubert might have snorted a derisive noise, and tell him something like, "Care about him? I'm just exhausted of all his complaining." It shows a lot about how far the last few years have taken the siblings that Hubert folds his arms and says simply, "He _is_ my brother."

And once again Richard's thoughts linger on the passage of years. In the haze of Asbel's wedding, he hadn't seen much further than his own self-pity. But he remembers raising his eyes from that fog and seeing another set of longing eyes, chasing after someone they couldn't have.

He speaks delicately. "I fear this is more of a complicated matter than simply forgiving someone."

"Hm." Hubert's eyes pierce out into the storm. "I had a feeling that might be the case." For all his hypocrisies, Hubert is a frighteningly perceptive man. "The more I think on it, the more I realise romantic love is an utterly ridiculous concept," he says, pushing his glasses up onto his nose.

Considering he's just watched him lose every single item of clothing, Richard is inclined to agree.

Hubert nudges his head towards the window, and snorts a derisive snort. "It's like this storm. It comes in from out of nowhere, ruins all of your carefully laid plans, and leaves a huge mess in its wake. Then you're left blinking out in the cold snow, wondering what on earth just happened."

He can't help but think this sounds rather more like an accurate description of a certain person, but instead Richard quips, "I'm surprised, Hubert. I never took you for a poet."

Hubert side-eyes him. "If I didn't know you, Richard, I'd think you were mocking me."

"Then it's a good thing we know each other so well," Richard says, and Hubert's dry laughter resounds down the hall, a trapped echo.

Richard thinks of Asbel, throwing his ring into the sand.

He thinks of a sunset over the cliffs of Lhant. Being more than a reflection on stagnant waters. That cold, crystalline world cracking open.

"My brother's a moron, anyway," Hubert says, quite suddenly.

"I'd have to disagree with you there."

A disgruntled noise. "You would."

Even if those perfect days ended, that crack remained. A lingering warmth in the heart of the blizzard. Fortitude to walk through those dull days. Courage to look his uncle in the eye and smile. The strength to live.

Hubert claps a sympathetic hand on Richard's shoulder as he steps away and the thought occurs: that Hubert, in his own way, might have been trying to console him. The thought makes him smile, even as the ghost of Asbel's touch prickles against the crook of his elbow. So hesitant for Asbel, whom the last time they met went so far as to force himself to meet Richard's interest in an attempt to preserve their friendship. In contrast, the echo of Asbel's shy grip is uncharacteristic, and utterly wrong.


	6. vanishing act

_Part VI: vanishing act_

Asbel throws himself into consciousness with such a force that it catapults him bolt-upright in bed. His spine is ram-rod straight; heart a tumbling of butterflies fluttering under his chest. He reaches for Cheria's familiar warmth and softness, but his bed is empty.

The snow continues to throb against the window, the radiator clanking from the corner of the room; unfamiliar and strange.

Asbel can always talk to Cheria when the bad dreams come. And she always listens intently, and never makes him feel silly or childish for them.

If she were here, she'd take his hand. He'd tell her: "It was so strange, Cheria. I was in the nursery with you and Eric. You were feeding him, and both of you looked so peaceful. But it was like you couldn't see or hear me. I called out but you didn't even look up. It was like I wasn't even there at all. And then I caught a look of myself in the mirror, and—"

And it hadn't been his face at all, but his father's, staring back at him.

* * *

"…Asbel, you're pulling at it."

"Ah, sorry about that, Sophie…"

Sat cross-legged behind her on her bed that evening, Asbel puts in the extra effort to be gentle, brushing Sophie's long hair in careful strokes. It's a far cry from his usual half-hearted tug of the comb through sleep-tousled hair he practices every morning, yawning at the bathroom mirror and fumbling for his toothbrush.

When he's done, Asbel fans out her long hair over the duvet in long swallow tails, admiring his handiwork. "It's gotten longer."

"Cheria says brushing it everyday pulls it out," Sophie tells him.

"You, uh, didn't think it was already long enough?"

"She braids it, too. Otherwise it gets tangled when I sleep."

If that's not a hint he doesn't know what is. Asbel rubs at his neck, stalling. "I can't say hair braiding is on my list of talents, Sophie."

She twist on the bed to look at him with wide eyes. "It's not?"

"Ur. Not really."

Her eyes widen a little more, and she snatches up Asbel's hand. "It's okay, Asbel. You don't need to feel embarrassed. I can teach you."

"What-? I'm not embar—" but Asbel cuts himself off as with a singular purpose Sophie takes up a portion of her hair and begins an explanation on hair braiding 101.

"So you take this part here and fold it over—"

Asbel smiles. "This part?"

"Uh-huh. And you take that bit under here…"

* * *

Brow pulled together in concentration, it's not until Asbel hears the soft chuckle from the doorway that he looks up.

"What do you call that, then?" Jeannine asks.

"Call what?"

She nods her head at Sophie's hair "That."

Scratching at his scalp, Asbel says, "Ur, a braid?"

"Here I was thinking it was some attempt at modern art." There's an amused, but not unkind twist to her mouth.

"Asbel," Sophie says in that voice, "what have you done?"

 _I thought it was going pretty well._

"Uh."

Jeannine raises one eyebrow.

Asbel starts to get the attraction between her and Malik.

"Let me fix it up for you, Sophie," she says, and climbing up onto the bed starts to undo the mess he's made. Asbel scoots out of the way, watching Jeannine's deft hands go to work.

Yet as he watches, a strange feeling starts to creep towards him. He watches as she gathers Sophie's hair and carefully parts it into sections. As she criss-crosses and weaves, fingers nimbly tucking away loose stray strands, the same, weightless feeling from this morning pools into his lungs. His ears are filled with the sound of snow.

 _Phut-phut-phutphutphut—_

There's a strange unreality to the scene in front of him. Asbel feels as he felt watching his wife and son: like an invading stranger, looking in.

"Asbel. Are you awake?"

Asbel jerks back to reality, the strange feeling of dissociation lingering in his stomach like an uneasy nausea. "Uh- what?"

"Jeannine was talking to you," Sophie says, and her admonishing gaze softens into something like worry as she turns to look at him. "Asbel?"

"S-sorry 'bout that." He rubs at the short, bristly hairs the back his neck. An unconscious, nervous reaction, yet it's comforting how real it feels. "Kinda spaced out there. What were you saying, Jeannine?"

"Malik's downstairs in the basement. He wanted to know if you and the other guys would like to have a few drinks with him?"

"Oh, sure," Asbel says.

"Not the stag do he was planning, but I'm sure he'd appreciate your company regardless," Jeannine says.

"Oh. I read about those in a book," Sophie chimes in.

"You… read a book about stag nights?" asks Asbel.

"Uh-huh. Are you going to have strippers?" she asks, completely candid.

Asbel feels all the colour in his body rise to his face.

Jeannine laughs so hard she has to clutch at her chest. "Well— unless Asbel's brother fancies getting his kit off, I doubt it."

Asbel decides not to mention the naked-brother-in-the-hallway encounter from earlier.

"Yeah. I'm just going to go. Be good, Sophie." His friendly hair muss is thwarted by a stern look.

"Don't take your clothes off, Asbel," she warns him.

* * *

Malik's home just wouldn't be Malik's home without his own private basement bar, Asbel thinks in retrospect.

"I think you're old enough for a drink now, Lord Lhant," Malik says, and Asbel's given little choice as a glass of something potent Malik calls the _kind witch_ is banged down on the bar in front of him.

"And why, pray tell, is is called that?" Hubert asks, glaring in suspicion at his own glass, as though it might convince it to surrender and give up its secrets.

"Why, because she'll spell away your sobriety, of course," Malik tells them.

Richard, for reasons Asbel can imagine still far too vividly, shares his reticence. His blond hair is seared white under the inorganic Fendel lights in the basement bar, smile somewhat fixed as he sips without really drinking. The ceiling fan above turns in soft whooshing sighs and Malik has a priasmatic rainbow of liquors. "Now you might recognise this fine substance, Hubert. A fine export from Strahta, better than an oasis to ease a parched throat—" Hubert is nodding his head in interest as Malik shows him his collection, and Asbel's eyes continue to snag. There's an invisible string connecting the two of them and without even looking Asbel can feel Richard stealing surreptitious glances from under eyelashes. And the glances are tugs, pulling like a lure at something deep and buried in his chest. His eyes catch: on Richard's white-hot halo of hair; on his left leg, folded neatly over the other; the way his thumb slides over the rim of the glass in an absent tic.

Asbel wrenches his eyes away and takes a deep draft of Malik's _kind witch_ , the liquor so strong it nearly scalds. All to chase away the burning look of Richard's eyes, the lingering taste of his lips.

He laughs loudly at Malik's stories, banters with his increasingly tipsy and patriotic brother, who could never, after all, turn down a fine product of Strahta. Richard continues to sip, listening to Hubert's loud gossip about the president with an increasingly wistful smile. It feels as though the thread between them is going slack.

"-Not many people know this about the President, but the real reason he travels around the country-…"

Richard is bright, white under the lights, a ghost with a smile floating like a bobbing buoy on the water. The pain in Asbel's chest becomes distant. It feels like everything is floating away, slipping loose from his fingertips.

Even underground, he can hear the sound of snow.

 _Phutphutphutphutphut—_

Meaning passes through him. Words break up into meaningless syllables.

"—told him—"

"Wish I-"

"Do you think?"

he feels empty

and so Asbel drinks

and so Asbel sleeps

* * *

When hazy consciousness swims back to Asbel and he finds himself blinking in the face of the bright lights of the basement, Richard and Hubert are gone.

For several moments, he stares at Richard's empty stool, uncomprehending.

That blissful numbness that had dimmed everything to a pleasant, harmless blur is ebbing.

His chest hurts.

"They both went to bed a while ago." Asbel turns towards the bar to find Captain Malik with washcloth in hand, cleaning the used glasses until they gleamed.

Asbel's eyebrows pinch as the scene overlays itself with another: Malik helping out at Tactics back while Asbel was undertaking his knight training. But that all feels like an age ago, now.

"You've been out for a bit. Richard tried to wake you, but you were pretty determined about getting cosy with the bar."

"Geez. Sorry." He swears he can still feel the woodgrain of the counter top imprinted on his face. He pushes himself up off his elbows, movements still clumsy and sluggish, as though he's pushing through water.

"Asbel, I've been meaning to ask for some time." Malik reaches for another glass. "Is everything alright?"

"Huh?" he puts a hand to his swimming head. "Yeah. I'm fine. Probably just a bit too much to drink."

Malik chuckles. "I have to say I never realised you and your brother had so much enthusiasm for it. I've underestimated you." But then he sets the glass down in the rack. "But that's not what I meant. Ever since you arrived, you've been acting not yourself. Is there something you've got on your mind?"

Is it really that obvious?

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it."

"Aha. So I was right. There is something bothering you."

Darn. Asbel clamps his mouth shut. It's the alcohol in his system.

"It's not something I want to drag you into, Captain."

"Oh, that's not a problem. Over the years I've discovered I quite enjoy meddling and interfering with the lives of my young proteges. Perhaps it helps me relive the tumults of my own youth."

Asbel squints at him. "You know that you're really not even that old, Captain."

"Kind of you to say about your old Grandfather, Asbel," Malik says, before adding on a more serious note: "You know that whatever we say stays between us. I am, as always, your friend and confidant, Asbel."

Asbel mulls the words around in his mouth. He's kept his feelings locked up and guarded them closely for so long, and has that helped him at all? With an offer like this laid in front of him, it's tempting to just blurt the whole, terrible thing. To rid his body of this poisonous secret that little by little, is corroding his insides with guilt.

"I don't really know where to begin," he says, after a long while.

"There's no rush," Malik says, kindly.

The radiator behind the pool table clunks back into life and begins its horrible rattle. Asbel focuses on the feel of the knots in the woodgrain under his fingers. The words are caught like a stopper in his throat.

Malik leans back against the cabinet. "Let me hazard a guess, then. Having trouble adjusting to married life?"

He tears his eyes from the whirls of the woodgrain, eyes clashing against Malik's. "How did you know?"

"Hm." He slips a hand around his stubbled chin. "Allow me to take a small detour, Asbel. Tell me, do you know why it was I took you on as a student, back at the Knight Academy?"

"Huh?" What does this have to do with anything? Those years, although not many years ago, feel like a distant dream now.

"I'll be honest with you. It wasn't natural talent. There were several in your class who could swing a sword with greater skill. It was your humility and determination that made you stand out amongst your peers. Year after year, boys from well-to-do families signed up, expecting instant progression and early graduation… I'm sure you remember some of them."

Asbel snorts. "Yeah, I had to share my bunk with one of them. Hinkley. He barely knew how to dress himself when he arrived but he lorded it over all the boys in our dorm."

A dry chuckle from the Captain. "And he didn't last six months, did he? But you impressed me, Asbel. A scion of a lord, and I watched you get down and scrub every inch of the deck of that ship. Well, after that day I began to pay more attention to you. You had that certain spark I was looking for. I could tell it wasn't some childish ambition that drove you. This wasn't something you wanted. It was something you needed."

Asbel smiles. A distant smile. "Well, I don't know about that. I was just a stubborn kid, really. I couldn't exactly go home and admit I'd been wrong."

There's a surprised silence, and Malik asks, "You… think you made the wrong choice?"

"Right… Wrong… In the end, what difference does any of it make? I would have ended up back in Lhant regardless." Absently, Asbel runs his finger along the woodgrain, letting it follow the pattern of the wood.

"Asbel." Malik's eyes cut into his, shearing through the tipsy haze. "Are you telling me you truly believe those years were worthless?"

"Ah, sorry Captain... I realise that was rude. Don't think I don't appreciate all you've taught me." He makes to slip from the stool. "I should get a drink of water and go to bed."

"Asbel." The Captain's voice is a firm hand around his wrist, the force of which makes him hesitate.

"Captain?"

"You're getting that ass back in that seat, and you're not leaving until you tell me what in the world has happened to you."

Asbel sinks back down, pinned into place by Malik's concerned stare, which roams over him as though trying to figure out who has replaced him.

Asbel can't meet it. "This is your stag night, Captain. Shouldn't we talk about something happier?" Asbel asks, studying the counter top intently. But the words are no more than one last wriggle of the fish caught on the lure.

"Since this is my stag night, we're going to do just as I damn please. And right now that means you start acting like yourself and spit out what the problem is."

Bluntly, Asbel says, "I'm going to need more alcohol."

"You know you shouldn't use alcohol to deal with your problems," Malik says, pouring out two glasses.

"You're not saying no, though."

A low and throaty chuckle. "That would make me a hypocrite, wouldn't it?"

He raises his glass, and Asbel asks, "What are we toasting?"

"What do you think? My wedding."

The chink of glasses. "Congratulations," Asbel says, and the taste is so bitter he starts to cough.

"Probably should have said. I figured you wanted something strong," Malik says, by way of apology.

"You figured right." The second taste goes down easier, muting the aching feeling in his chest.

"Too bad Richard already went up. We could have toasted his engagement too."

Asbel is gripping his glass tight in hands. It's cold, the ice causing condensation that begins to bead on the outside. "I guess it must at least be easy to get ice here in Fendel, huh?" he asks. "Convenient."

"What happened between you and him?"

The tightness in his chest builds as a bead trembles and begins its descent down the glass. His head swims. The liqor loosens the vice grip held on his jaw.

He's never liked keeping things from people, anyway.

"I realised I was in love with him."

Malik's eyebrows rise, but to give the man great credit, he displays no other signs of surprise.

"And he has feelings for you, too," Malik says. It's not even a question, but Asbel nods anyway.

"So… you see my predicament," he says, with a short laugh, although nothing about this is funny at all. "Are you horribly apalled?"

"Why would I be?" He leans down against the bar on his elbows. "You're not a criminal for having feelings, Asbel." He takes a drink so calmly it makes Asbel feel a little better.

Now he's started, it feels like the cork plugged in his throat has come free. He blurts, and it's sheer relief to the deluge go, and confess: "I kissed him. At Sophie's birthday party in the spring. I thought it would fix— I don't know what I thought it would fix. Richard stopped me. He reminded me about Cheria and Eric." He'd held in the feelings for so long, they try to tumble forward all at once. About the sickening feeling of guilt that crept up on him at night like bile. How in one instant, until Richard reminded him, he'd completely forgotten about his family. How cold and empty he felt some nights, even with Cheria in his arms, so warm and so endlessly loving. "I thought we could go back to how things were before. But I realise now I was only being naive." Hearts could change, but some things could not be so easily erased.

"So let me guess…" Malik says, after listening closely to Asbel's splurge of words, "instead, you've both been trying to ignore one another, and hope this all goes away?"

"What else can I do?"

"And how well is that working out for you right now?" Malik asks.

He thinks about the mirror, and his father's face looking back at him. How even with Sophie, that cold feeling crept up on him. "Not good," he admits. Hands grip the glass, tight. "Captain, please… what do you think I should do? You've always given me good advice."

"Hm. Let me play the devil's advocate for a moment. You and Richard both have the same feelings. What's stopping you from following them?"

Asbel's mouth drops open. He stares at Malik in shock as he rolls the liquor round in his glass.

"Devil's advocate," Malik reminds him. "Go on. Why?"

"Because I can't," Asbel splutters. "I have a wife. I have my son. How can I do something like that to Cheria? She… she doesn't deserve this."

"So your main reason is your wife's happiness," Malik surmises.

" _Shouldn't_ it be?"

"What about yours?"

"Huh?"

Malik leans over the bar, chin cupped in his hands. "Pop quiz time, Asbel. Tell me an aspiring knight's code of conduct."

Frowning, wondering what any of this had to do with his predicament, Asbel lists them off from rote anyway: "Courteous, generous, chivalrous. A knight is a shield for his King and protector of the people he serves," he says. "They're the things I've tried to live by, even after leaving the Knight Academy."

"And they're noble aspirations," Malik says with a nod. "But there are times when you have to put them aside."

"What do you mean, Captain?"

Malik's eyes cut through the harsh white light of the bar, to a far away distant time. "More than twenty years ago, I followed similar principles, and for twenty years I drunk to bury my regret. Even now, if I could go back, if I could at least have been honest with my feelings…"

Asbel quietens. "What was her name again?"

"Lorelia."

"But… that's different. You lied to her because you didn't want her to get hurt," he protests.

"That's what I told myself, at the time. But afterwards I realised… it'd been my own cowardice, the same feelings that led me to abandon the revolution. If I'd been honest with her, if I'd been by her side… maybe then I might have been able to protect her."

"I'm sorry, Captain, but I don't really see the similarities in the two situations," Asbel says.

"Don't you? Aren't you lying to Cheria, because, as you put it yourself, you don't want her to get hurt?"

He flinches. "I guess… I guess I am. But…"

"But nothing, Asbel. In the end, chivalry is at best a concept, but regret is real. Sure, you might have a good life with Cheria. Who knows, maybe you might even learn to love her, in a fashion. But when you look back when you're old and grey, do you really think you'll be able to give yourself a pat on the back for your chivalry then?" He raises his glass, mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Trust me— regret is a liquor I'm well acquainted with, Asbel."

Asbel's glass is empty, and he stares into the bottom of it. He can't deny the truth that rang in the Captain's words, but… "But it's not like I don't care about Cheria. I do. And maybe, if I have enough time…"

"You'll be able to get over this?" Malik prompts.

He nods. "I mean, you're happy with Jeannine now, aren't you?"

"We wouldn't be here if I wasn't," Malik chuckles.

"So, maybe…"

Malik emerges from behind the bar, pulling up a seat. He turns it backward to straddle it. "I've never brought it up before because I didn't think it was relevant, but perhaps I may have been wrong. Asbel, you know that your father and the late King Ferdinand were friends, don't you?"

"Sure. My father fought for him. For his loyal service to the crown he gave him Excalibur." He's still a little embarrassed about stealing it from Aston's study as a child. If he'd known what a precious heirloom it was, he might not have been so callous about swinging it around as a boy.

Well, maybe, anyway.

"Too bad Dad wouldn't accept the ring, though, so he could actually use it," Asbel said with a shrug.

"Aha, so that was the story."

"What do you mean, Captain?"

"King Ferdinand kept the ring to wear for himself. He gave your father the other part not as a favour for loyalty, but as a pledge of devotion."

"W-what?" splutters Asbel. Malik doesn't react to his outburst, elbows folded casually over the back of the stool. "Are you saying that the King and my Dad… how do you know this anyway?"

"You forget I served his Majesty for many years. A knight protects not just their King, but their secrets as well," Malik says.

It sounds unbelievable, but even as Asbel's lips form a retort a memory pops back to the surface like a soap bubble.

For the longest time in his father's study, an old painting had hung over the mantelpiece. As a small child, winding his legs around the sturdy oak legs of the desk while his Papa scratched away above, something had drawn him to it. In the picture were two men with laughing faces, arms wrapped around one another's shoulders.

One day, he asked his mother, "Who is this?"

"That's King Ferdinand. See? He's wearing his crown," his mother told him.

"No. Him." A childish stubby digit prodded at the King's companion.

"Why, that's your father, Asbel!"

Kerri had laughed hard, until Asbel stubbornly clenched his brow and protested, "But this man is _smiling_."

A few years after that, the painting vanished from the mantelpiece, and soon after that the memory of it slipped away too.

As well as that— "When I first met Richard, he was wearing the ring."

"Ah. That," Malik says. "Out of the blue, your grandfather on his deathbed changed the line of succession to the Lhant Lordship. Your uncle Aldan was supposed to become the next new Lord of Lhant, but the job was handed to his younger brother at the last minute."

"Mum told me about that… she said it destroyed his relationship with his brother." He's still not sure even now he'll ever be able to forgive his father for what he did to Hubert… but after he'd learned that story, he began to understand him a little better, at least.

"Aston never wanted to be lord. I actually think he would have been happy as Ferdinand's gardener… but regardless, Aston did his duty. When his father passed away, he returned from the capital to Lhant to take up his duties. He put aside what he shared with the King and took a wife like his mother wanted."

"I always thought it was strange," Asbel admits. "Mum told me what great friends Dad and the King were, but I don't remember him ever mentioning anything about him that wasn't some sort of business."

Adventuring in the attic with Hubert one day, hunting for treasure, he'd discovered the painting that once hung in the study. Put out of sight and catching dust, just like the feelings Aston himself had put away.

There was a feeling that had nagged at Asbel all through his childhood. Growing up, he was constantly told how much his father loved him. How his stern discipline was only because Aston was concerned about him. That he only wanted the best for him.

Yet there had always been an impassable distance between father and son. Dragging his papa out by hand to show him a grasshopper in the rose patch, occasionally he'd play along, crouching down to tell him about all the types of insects that lived in the garden. But just as often he would peek a glance at him when he was unawares, and there'd be a terrible remote look in Aston's eyes. And when he looked at Asbel, he was afraid he wasn't seeing him at all.

Fingers grip tight around the cold glass. Somehow, it feels as though the chill has crept inside him.

As much as he'd do anything to protect him, when he looks at his son, Asbel feels that distance, too.

He'd been confused when Captain Malik brought up his time at the Knight Academy, but Asbel thinks he understands why, now.

It's at this second, staring at a half-melted ice cube in an empty glass in Malik's bar-basement in the middle of a snow-storm in Fendel that Asbel understands. His life, since the day he stood on those steps in Barona and said, "Come live with me," has been no more than a sham.

 _Lambda was right when he always called me a fool,_ he thinks.

"I never wanted to be a lord," he admits. "Or— or any of those other things." All he'd ever wanted, since he scratched his name into the tree on Lhant Hill, was to stand by Richard's side, wearing the colours of a knight.

And yet he'd tried to put those feelings aside, shove them into the attic like a dusty, unwanted painting. Condemned them as childish, when they were the most genuine feelings he'd ever felt. Nothing more real than the moment Richard's blade pressed against his collarbone and he'd rose as a knight of Windor.

That was the spark Malik spoke of. And now it was a guttering candle, so reminiscent of the late nights he spent in his father's study; the cryas in his lamp burning low, filing tedious paperwork and thinking that was what it meant to be an adult.

It's a chilling thought: if he kept on this path, would he too one day become as cold as Aston was with his family?

The warm jacket of alcohol protects him, yet still Asbel shivers.

"Captain, you always know what's best. Please, tell me what to do." He leans forward, white knucklebones taught around his knees, nearly pleading.

And Malik hesitates. "You overestimate me , Asbel. This isn't something with a simple answer that can just be fixed."

Asbel buries his face in his hands. "I have to tell Cheria," he says. His chest twists. "But how can I do something like this to her? I mean, she'll hate me, won't she?"

"Probably," Malik says, so candid Asbel pulls his head out of his hands to stare at him.

"You want me to be honest, don't you? I don't want to sugar-coat things. I'm not saying any of this is going to be easy. People may turn against you. Your wife will probably despise you. Many of your peers will look down on you."

"C-captain… this isn't terribly consoling…"

"Well, do you want to be consoled, or do you want the truth?" Asbel fell silent, and he continued: "But it's also the truth that if you don't, ten years down the line, you'll be living with a woman you don't love, most likely drinking yourself to death with regrets, if today has been anything to go by."

"You… know about that one huh, Captain?" Asbel asks weakly.

Malik replies with a wan smile.

"Don't think Cheria will be any happier for it in the long run, either. She's an intelligent woman. I wouldn't be surprised if she hasn't realised something's not right, either."

Cheria's hand, firmly holding his. "Maybe this is something all couples go through…" she'd said.

They'd both been trying so hard to convince themselves.

"If you really care about Cheria's happiness, then think about this. Does she deserve to spend her life with a man who loves someone else more than her? Is that what she should be satisfied with, her love in exchange for your tepid friendship? I thought you cared more for her than that."

"You're right." The word is heavy lead in his stomach, before the thought occurs— maybe it would be the right thing to come clean. Maybe even the just thing—

But as though Malik has heard his thoughts, he barks a short, dry laugh. "Oh, but don't get me wrong. She's still not going to thank you for it. Now, if I were you, I'd talk to her about it when she doesn't have those knives of hers."

It's a small attempt at lifting the increasingly oppressive mood, but Asbel can't bring himself to laugh.

He stares, glumly, at his knees.

"Listen," Malik says, and he grips his arm, squeezing. "The two of you are just youngsters still. You made a mistake, but there's no reason you have to be punished for it for the rest of your life. I know this all seems serious, but one day you might even look back on it and—"

"Laugh? _Really_ , Captain?" Asbel asks.

"With age comes distance, and with distance, perspective."

Asbel shakes his head. He's sure that means something, but right now he can't see past breaking Cheria's heart.

"You'll find it easier if you give up thinking about doing the noble thing. In the end you can't think of love in those kinds of terms. Right and wrong don't apply in the same way that they do to everything else. You have to go with what your heart tells you and be as honest as you can, and then even then sometimes it all gets screwed up anyway. But… sometimes not. But at least you can walk away without regrets."

Malik puts his glass down with a clack. The radiator ends its rattle and exhaling a _hiss_ , falls silent.

"The ball's in your court, Asbel. You're not my student any longer… this decision is yours."

* * *

 _A/N- you can always rely on the Cap'n for some solid advice and hard liquor._


	7. ghost stories

_Part VII: ghost stories_

Sophie's friends aren't okay.

They might pretend otherwise, but she can tell.

Whatever it was that went wrong, it went wrong at Asbel and Cheria's wedding. It'd been an amazing day. All her friends were there and Cheria had filled her hair full of sunflowers to match her sunny new yellow dress. But it'd been a long evening and everyone was being kind of loud. So, Captain Malik had invited her under the buffet table draped with Lady Kerri's best lace to tell her some of his favourite ghost stories.

Not that Sophie believed in ghosts or anything. Like Pascal said, it was "scientifically impossible."

So when a hand lifted Kerri's lace and a face peered in, dressed in billowing white, the reason Sophie had yelled was because she was startled. Not because of any ghosts.

Cheria, in turn, looked just as shocked as Sophie felt. "Sophie, what's wrong?"

"Your dress- I thought—"

Cheria's brow pinched, perplexed, and then intuitively her eyes narrowed at the Captain.

"What were you telling her this time, Malik?"

"Just some interesting local stories," Malik said, cross-legged and innocent-looking.

"Cheria, did you _know_ about the murdered boy living in our attic?"

Cheria's eyes narrowed further. "Later, we'll talk," she said to Malik. "I need both of your help right now."

"Oh? With what?" Malik asked.

"With— well, just come with me. You'll see."

Cheria took them out into the back garden. And that was how Sophie found Richard, half hidden behind the willow tree and crying, his jacket covered with dirt.

Sophie crouched down by his side, asking anxiously, "Richard, what's wrong?"

But it was like Richard didn't even know she was there. She looked up at her friends, who looked equally concerned. "What's the matter with Richard?" she asked.

"I'd say I haven't had nights like this one. But that would be a lie," said the Captain.

For some reason, Richard had taken off his boots and was wearing one sock, too. Also he smelled kind of weird. She leant over him and gave a hearty sniff. "He smells like you do sometimes, Captain!"

Cheria crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Remember when I told you not to try some of that punch, Sophie?"

"Uh-huh."

"This is why."

"Oh." Now it all made sense. "I read about this. In a book called, _the dangers of a alcohol abuse_. Maybe you should read it too, Captain."

A rare thing, to see Malik speechless and spluttering. "That's not something to joke about, Sophie. I'll have you know I only drink at the end of the week. Nowadays, anyway."

A sigh. "Please let's just get him inside the house already. Malik, if you could—" Before Cheria could finish, Sophie had already heaved Richard up onto her back. She shucked him up, holding him firmly under his knees, limp arms and head lolling. Apparently while they'd been talking, he'd passed out.

"Well, that also works." Malik grabbed Richard's boots and pulled his loose sock down from where it was snagged on the willow tree.

Richard was still sleeping when Sophie set him down on the settee in the foyer. She and Cheria peeled off his soiled jacket and set it aside, Sophie rolling up his sock and putting it back on so Richard's feet wouldn't get cold. She could't help but think of the past as she did his laces up. Just a year ago, it'd been Richard who explained it to her, showing which parts to loop, patiently, until she'd understood.

It was only when they'd got Richard settled and comfy that Sophie allowed herself to worry. Just why was Richard so sad, anyway?

She wanted to talk to him the next morning, but Richard left before everyone else got up.

"I'm sorry, young Sophie, but he said there was urgent business in the capital he had to attend to," Frederic told her as she rubbed at her eyes, watching the turtlez transport pull away through the window.

After that, Asbel started acting weird, too. The one tidy part of his desk where he kept his letters from Richard was washed away and lost underneath a tsunami of paperwork, one Asbel was increasingly struggling to keep up with. Richard responded to her letters in short, clipped correspondence, but he and Asbel stopped writing at all.

"Do you think Richard and Asbel had a fight?" she asked Cheria in the study, on a day when Asbel was out with Bailey for the bi-weekly inspection of the town. On these days, Cheria would, secretly, help her husband with his paperwork, sending it away to the various recipients without Asbel ever knowing. She was sat at his desk, tearing through the correspondence at a phenomenal speed, but glanced up at Sophie's question.

"I think so too. I've tried talking to him about it. But he's so stubborn these days." She looked back down to scrawl off a reply, slapping the letter into the _done_ pile. "He acts like everything's okay, but…" Here, Cheria hesitated, setting down her quill to direct Sophie's eyes to the overflowing mess on the desk.

He'd been increasingly scatter-brained after the wedding. And when Hubert came to visit with a potted cactus Sophie accepted somewhat dubiously, he told them Richard hadn't looked well at all.

Her surprise visit to Barona, a few weeks later, confirmed that.

She'd hoped her two dear friends might make up at her birthday. But, afterwards, Asbel started acting even stranger. He became more distracted than ever. He begun to snap at her, even if it was always followed by profuse apologies afterwards.

"I'm sorry, Sophie."

"I'm just a little stressed."

"I've got a lot on my plate right now."

Yet it was more than just stress. Often, Sophie would poke her head around the door to the study and say goodnight, and Asbel would still be sat at his desk. Elbows up, quill in hand, he'd sit, staring into nothing. Most of the time he didn't even notice Sophie standing there.

She'd call out to say "goodnight," and there was something unsettling in the way Asbel would tear himself away from his thoughts, cloudy eyes focusing as he came back from the place he'd been.

"Oh, goodnight Sophie."

Every night, it seemed to take a little longer. A fear started to grow in the pit of her stomach. That one day, Asbel wouldn't come back, and stay in that distant, lonely place where she didn't exist.

Even a year after the wedding, here in Fendel, her friends are doing their best to avoid one another.

It makes her sad, and yet there's another feeling too: a bubbling frustrated anger in her stomach, because hadn't they all promised to be together forever? Why had they lied?

Sophie didn't use to believe in ghosts, but she does now. Because there are two of them in this house, wearing Richard and Asbel's clothing.

Wherever they'd gone, Sophie just wishes her friends would come back.

* * *

 _Crash_.

Sophie blinks back into consciousness as something repeatedly _thumps_ , before exploding into laughter, quickly muffled. Almost like something had just fallen down the stairs.

"Hold onto me, Hubert. I think you've had a bit too much to drink…"

Okay, maybe that's a _someone_.

By the time she's rubbed at her eyes and crawled out of the warmth of her bed, the door to Hubert's room is open, light from the cryas lamp spilling out onto the landing. She stands in the doorway in her nightdress, watching Richard help Hubert out of his boots, and it's like "deja vu," a word Hubert himself explained the definition of.

It means, "a feeling like you've been somewhere, met someone, or done something before, even if you can't place it."

Everything Sophie knows, she owes to her friends. She'd been alive before she met Asbel, and yet it was only afterwards she could say that she was living.

Her hands ball tight at her sides. So why? Why can't she—?

As soon as Hubert's head hits the pillow, he passes out almost instantly. And pushing his feet up onto the bed Richard stands, straightening. Notices her standing in the doorway.

"Ah, Sophie, we didn't wake you—?" Richard stops midway, eyes moving over her face, her clenched fists. "What's wrong?" he asks.

The words have been caught in her throat for too long. She can't help but blurt them: "Why can't I help you?" she asks. "Why can't I make things better? We all promised to be friends. You care about Asbel, and he cares about you. I know he does. So why can't you stop fighting? Why can't things go back to how they were?"

It's not _fair_ , she wants to say. Her eyes fill with the tears the Little Queen gave her and she says, "I don't understand. I just can't understand at all."

The world is blurry from tears, but she sees Richard take a step forward. "Sophie…"

She hates this. She hates the _deja vu_ it gives her. How Asbel and Richard fighting make her think of how they all fought against Richard and Lambda. It's the same feeling fluttering under her chest, knowing that even though Richard was her friend she would have to fight him.

"Why can't I do anything?" she demands.

Richard's hand closes round hers and he pulls her to him. Richard is always gentle, and yet there's a fierceness to the way he holds her. Sophie blinks away the blurriness from her eyes, cheek pressed against his lapel, arms holding her so protectively and close it's almost crushing.

"No," he says, mouth to her hair as he plants a kiss there. "None of this is your fault, Sophie."

"But—" she protests, and he grips her tighter.

"No," he says again. "You have helped me, Sophie, more than you realise. If you hadn't come to visit me last year, I fear I would have fallen to pieces. It's because of you I was able to pick them back up. You've helped me so many times."

She begins to relax, softening against Richard's jacket. "Really?"

"Would I lie to you?"

She shakes her head, the material rubbing coarsely against her face. Doesn't even have to think about it. "No."

Her rigid hands untense, fingers uncurling. She pulls her arms around Richard. "I just wish things could go back to how they used to be."

All Richard says is, "I know."

Richard doesn't let go, so she doesn't, either.

"I'm so sorry I made you feel like this, Sophie. I didn't realise. Maybe, if I'd tried harder to fix this… if I could have been stronger…"

She can't see Richard's face, but she recognises that familiar tinge of self-loathing in his voice, and she squeezes him as tightly as he's holding her.

"It's not your fault, either," she tells him, voice clear and carrying conviction.

"Of course," Richard says, with a small self-deprecating laugh. He doesn't believe her.

"It's not," she tells him.

But if it's not her fault, and if it's not Richard's, then who's is it? It can't be Asbel's either, who acts tough but who she knows better. She's seen the crumpled dozen attempts at letters he's tried and failed to send to Richard, all saying different words meaning the same thing: _I miss you_.

"It's nobody's fault," she suddenly understands.

But if it's nobody's fault… how do they fix this?

It's not the first time Sophie's wished Lambda was awake, so she could ask what he thought.

She feels Richard tugging at her French braid. "Who did your hair? It looks nice," he says, pulling back a little to see her face.

"Jeannine. But Asbel tried." He's never been good at knots— tying or untangling.

"I would have liked to have seen that."

"It was funny. But I actually secretly sort of liked it. It was so Asbel."

Richard smiles, but clouds smothering a margarine sun, it quickly melancholies.

A long time ago, Cheria explained to her that there was more than one type of love. More than the way she loves flowers, or the way she loves her friends. And Sophie has long since discerned that Richard and Asbel love one another in more than one of those ways, and maybe they've just got all tangled up.

"Richard, can I ask you something?" she asks.

"Of course."

"You're marrying Lady Isabelle, right?"

"I am."

"But…" she says, "if you could, would you prefer to marry Asbel?"

His mouth hangs open for a second. "I couldn't even if I wanted to."

That doesn't answer her question.

"But if you _could_ , would you?"

"That's…" Richard hesitates, before surrendering with a rueful smile. Without a shred of doubt he says, "I would."

She thinks about this. "If you and Asbel got married, I'd help you decorate the castle. I'd grow a bunch more extra sopherias. And a ton of red roses, because they're your favourite, Richard. We could wrap them around the banisters in the hall."

"Sophie…"

She's worried she's upset him when he looks like he's about to cry. But then he pulls her back into a tight hug. "Thank you," he says.

Neither of them move for a long time. When she finally pulls back, Richard's eyes are a bit wet looking, but his smile is no longer so pinched.

"I'm sorry for keeping you up, Sophie. I imagine you must be tired."

She shakes her head. "Not really. Are you tired Richard, or do you want to have that rematch?"

Pascal had spent the afternoon teaching her the art of a game called _rummy_ , and she's determined to beat Richard at it.

She doesn't want to leave him alone yet, either.

"Sure," he smiles. "I'd like that."

* * *

The cold creeps into the room like a thief, robbing away the warmth. Outside the snow is hammering the windows with such force Richard isn't sure if it's not hail. One game turns into two, and then three, and it's only when Sophie starts to shiver even under Richard's fur-lined cloak that he thinks to check the radiator. It's stone cold.

"I think it's stopped working," he says, bending down to fiddle with a dial with numbers that make little sense to him.

Bundled up, he and Sophie traipse downstairs to find a conglomeration of friends in the boiler room. Jeannine and Malik lean over Pascal who's going to town on the boiler with a hammer.

Even buried under fur, Sophie's teeth are chattering. "Pascal, it's cold. Fix it."

"I assure ya, I'm tryin'!" Pascal says, giving the machine a solid smack.

Richard's always wondered how effective this technique of Pascal's really is. But then, he's not any kind of engineer.

"What happened?" he asks.

"We think there's a teeny weeny problem with some of the pipes," Pascal says.

"Do you know what's causing the issue?"

"Uh-huh. Pretty sure they're frozen over." She stands, wiping her brow with the back of her sleeve. "I'll see what I can do. But I'm gonna need someone who's good at hittin' stuff." Her eyes alight on Sophie, and she takes her by the arm, spinning her around to face the door. "C'mon, Sophie. I'm in need of some of your special skills."

Malik straightens. "Well. I better go make sure they don't demolish the house," he says.

Richard's sure that Hubert's still dead to the world, but something occurs to him. "Do you know if Asbel's still in bed?"

Jeannine's knelt before the boiler, tinkering away in a display of technical magic all of her Amarcian cousins seemed adept in. "He's out back," she says, looking up at Richard. "He offered to get the cryas from the shed, so we can get the backup boiler going if necessary."

Considering the last he saw of Asbel some hours ago, passed out on Malik's bar with even a firm shake unable to wake him, Richard is inclined to think this might not have been the best idea.

Seeing Asbel knock it back this evening had been like looking in a mirror, and not a kind one.

"I'll go help him," he says. "The back of the house, did you say?"

"That's right. Use the kitchen door."

Richard buttons his coat and fastens his cloak over the top, but the blizzard still hits him like a physical slap to the face. He has to use his shoulder and put his whole weight into opening the door, and then the wind wrenches it from his hand and slams it back against the wall with a sickening crack of the woodwork.

There's only a few feet visible in front of him. The snow is bad enough, but the force of the wind drives it into his face. Richard covers his eyes with his hand, nose stinging and tingling against the sharp, sudden plummet in temperature. Pulling his cloak tighter around him, he begins the trek to the back of the house.

Snow is piled up high in drifts against the walls, the garden littered with debris the wind has stolen. Richard nearly trips over an abused and broken weather vane, the snow pitted with slates torn from the roof.

Apparently, the loud crash they all heard last night had been the chimney pot.

The storm is becoming increasingly dangerous.

Richard finds the storage shed at the back of the garden. The snow's been shoveled out of the way of the door and there's a spade lying on the ground, fallen from where it'd been propped against the shed. Several sharp tugs of the door proved it bolted. Asbel is nowhere to be found.

Swallowing down the unease in his throat, Richard checks the rest of the garden and then backtracks to the house in case he'd passed him. It's only when nobody has seen Asbel and he stands back at the shed, staring at the fallen spade already half-buried, that Richard feels panic building.

The image rises unbidden of Asbel, unconscious in a snow drift somewhere, freezing to death.

"Asbel?" he calls, but the word is stolen and whipped away by a whirlwind of ice and snow. He tries again, raising his voice.

It's the same feeling when they were taking off from the research laboratory on Fodra, when Asbel had almost sacrificed himself so that they could escape. That same tight feeling in his chest and throat, fingers tingling, even in the warmth of his lined gloves.

At the end of the garden is a sharp slope, leading down into the forest. The fence that was there has been reduced to matchsticks. In the blizzard, it wouldn't be hard to take one step too far and to go over.

"Asbel? Are you there? Asbel!"

There's no feeling to his legs. He paces each side of the slope, calling out Asbel's name, nearly stumbling over a fallen branch. The wind is stinging his face and neck in icy needles, almost blinding.

At the bottom of the incline, some dozen feet down, Richard thinks he can make out something dark in the snow. He leans over the broken fence, raising his hands over his eyes to see. Heavy flurries of snow keep getting in his way but it looks almost like the shape of a person. Like— "Asbel!"

 _Asbel, hold on. I'm coming._

He backs up to the incline. It's very steep, and Richard places his footing carefully, toe of his boot crunching into the thick snow. Fingers cling to a loose root. There's no feeling to them.

"Richard!"

It's Asbel's voice, wild and panicked. Richard loses his footing on the slippery snow. Reaches for the root, which snaps in his hand. The bottom of his stomach drops out as he falls.

"Richard, I've got you!" A hand closes around his wrist, and Richard's blinking snow from his eyelashes, staring up at Asbel. His mouth's open, looking as shocked as Richard himself must be.

Asbel reaches down with his other hand and Richard takes it, digging the point of his boot more deeply into the snow. Working together, Asbel helps pull him up, and Richard falls forward onto his knees, snow soaking in through his trouser legs, chilling to the bone. He still feels so weak and wobbly he doesn't think he could stand if he tried.

Asbel is panting; perhaps he'd ran here. "Why-" he asks, out of puff, "what were you doing, Richard?"

"I was looking for you." His voice snaps in two, kindling crackling in fire. "Where were you?"

"I went to get the key for the shed." Asbel's eyes are wide. "You scared me half to death, Richard." Asbel helps pull him to his feet; his friend's hands are shaking. He has to lean on Asbel's weight for a second, his legs still feel so much like jelly. "I heard you yelling my name. I thought you'd been hurt. Or you'd been attacked by wolves, or—"

There's relief in Richard's chest, clogging his throat. He can hardly get the words out. "I thought you'd fallen down. I was—"

The urge is overwhelming. To grab Asbel and crush him to himself. But he can't. As the relief fades, the old open rift opens between them.

Richard clutches his forearm with his other hand. "I'm just glad you're alright."

The wind howls around them.

"Are you okay? You're not hurt at all, Richard?"

"I'm fine." The sloughing snow gives the excuse that he doesn't have to look at Asbel.

"Your cape's torn. It must have snagged when you slipped." Asbel reaches for him, but Richard brushes his hand, and his concern away.

"I'm fine, Asbel," he says again, more firmly than he'd intended.

"Oh. Right…" Richard can hear the hurt in Asbel's voice, even if he can't see it in his eyes, and his heart constricts in his chest.

It's hard just to keep his voice even: "I came to help you with the cryas," he says. "Jeannine said you wanted to get the backup boiler going."

"Oh… yeah. Did… you want to find the wheelbarrow? Malik says it's at the back of the shed."

As Asbel unlocks the shed and they shovel the sparkling shards of fire cryas into the wheelbarrow, neither of them say a word. Richard can feel Asbel's eyes on him, like a bruise.

When Richard picks up the wheelbarrow to bring the cryas back to the house, Asbel's hand closes around his wrist, and the touch is more shocking than if it was ice cold.

"Richard, wait. There's something I have to talk to you about."

Richard shakes his head. "I can't do this anymore, Asbel."

"Richard—"

"I'm tired." He's tired of the whole thing. Not just being heartbroken, but of that tiny little sprig of hope springing. The thought that maybe things could work out between them. That something could be salvaged. Only for those hopes to be stomped under foot, and to be left raw and hurting all over again.

"Just this once," says Asbel. "Let's just try to talk this through, this one last time. And if… if you don't want to, you'll never have to see me again after the wedding's over. Doesn't our friendship deserve that much?"

 _Never see me again_. That's not what he wants, either. But what can they do?

This situation is nobody's fault. And despite that, it doesn't change the fact that it's unbearable.

But he's never been able to deny Asbel anything in the name of friendship, so at last Richard acquiesces. "Very well," he says. "But let's fix the heating first."

This conversation will be difficult enough, without getting frostbite on top of it, too.

* * *

Even with Sophie's not-so-gentle persuasion, the pipes are still frozen solid. But when Jeannine gets the fire in the living room going, the resulting warmth is enough to almost raise a universal sob of relief. Feeling starts to come back to Richard's tingling fingers and nose. Because of Pascal's new heating system, not all rooms in the house have fireplaces. So, instead, blankets and mattresses are dragged down from upstairs to the warm part of the house.

"A real life slumber party!" Sophie exclaims in excitement. Half way through, Hubert turns up shivering in his dressing gown, asking what on earth is going on.

A bag of marshmallows is dug out of the cupboard, and Richard sits with Sophie cross-legged in front of the fireplace, toasting them on the brass fire poker.

"Hey Sophie, try toasting one of these." Asbel scoots up to the fire on Sophie's other side, a couple of apple gels in his palm, still in the wrappers.

Sophie wrinkles her nose. "Apple gels?" she asks. Richard thinks she's right to be suspicious.

"Yeah! They're really good warm. They go all gooey. I used to toast them when I ran reconnaissance in the Orlen Woods, back when I was at the Academy."

Sophie still doesn't look a hundred percent sold, but dubiously she accepts the apple gel from Asbel and sticks it onto the end of the poker, holding it out over the flames.

"Just watch out. They get pretty hot. Don't burn yourself," Asbel warns her, and then, after hovering anxiously, "...actually, let me get it for you, Sophie."

And, as it turns out...

"Ohhh! It's actually really good!" Sophie exclaims, expression going wide as she pops it into her mouth. "Richard, you've got to try this!"

"Well..."

Sophie turns to Asbel. "You've got to let Richard try one," she says, as a matter of urgency.

"Oh, sure. I've got more," Asbel says. He hands Sophie an apple gel, and she passes it to Richard.

Even if the logical part of Richard's mind protests, the words she said to him earlier still resonate. _You care about Asbel, and he cares about you._

"Do I... dare brave this new exciting culinary invention by the Lord of Lhant? I seem to still recall a certain mabo curry he insisted was edible once," Richard says, and he raises his eyes from the gel, pushing them up to meet Asbel's. There's a tightness to it, but he's smiling.

"Oh c'mon, it wasn't that bad."

Sophie's laughing.

"Well, it was certainly an adventure, that's for sure," Richard says.

"Lady Kerri banned Asbel from the kitchen for a month, afterwards," Sophie says.

"Yeah, well. Mum doesn't share the same taste in curry as me, that's all."

"Uh-huh. She likes food that's edible," Sophie says.

Richard forces down a snort, Asbel continuing to defend his abomination of a curry. Shockingly, toasted apple gel turns out to be one of Asbel's better ideas. Toasted apple gel on marshmallow, not so much.

It's the closest thing they've had to normal in over a year.

The fire warms every part of Richard, chasing away some of the stress built up in his muscles. Sophie tells them about the herbs she's planning on planting in the coming spring, and as she talks she slips her hand into Richard's. On her other side, he sees her holding onto Asbel's, too.

Despite himself, Richard can't help but let his mind wander to what Asbel plans on saying to him. Despite everything, he still can't help but long for some kind of resolution, too.

Pascal comes to join them and Sophie has her try toasted apple gel as well. By the time Hubert and Malik and Jeannine come to bed down, Pascal's toasting a kebab of peach, apple and grape gels on the end of the fire poker. The pillow fight is inevitable, if short-lived, when Malik tells them all to shut up and go to sleep because it's three in the goddamn morning.

It's only when everyone is settled in for the night, cosied up in a giant tangle in front of the fire that Asbel nods over at Richard. He pushes his blanket off and quietly follows him out into the hall, carefully stepping over limbs. His nerves are jangling. He squeezes his hand closed, feeling the traces of Asbel's firm grip, from where he'd pulled him to safety.

Despite it all, hope's a weed that cannot be crushed.

* * *

 _A/N- All comments are appreciated. Any tears are used to brew an elixir for eternal youth/world domination/ect._


	8. heart of the blizzard

"I'm sending you to Lhant, Richard," his father had said.

He'd made doubly sure that Richard had shut the heavy study door firmly behind him. Things had been bad recently, and open doors were now a thing of the past at Barona Castle.

"The town on the Fendel border periphery?" Richard asked. He sat in the armchair in the King's study that had always been _Richard's chair_. His father was stood, lent against the desk. He never put it between them when they spoke.

"You've been paying attention to your tutor," his father said, nodding his approval. "That's the place. It's out in the country. A bit out in the boonies, if I'm honest. But it's safe… I fear even Gralesyde is no longer the haven it once was."

Richard fidgeted in his seat, fingers tugging unconsciously at the embroidered lacework on the arm. More than once, his father had to have the chair reupholstered. The situation must be grave, Richard thought, if he was being sent out to this tiny border town. Though he couldn't say he was displeased about having to spend another summer alone with Dalen's awful nephews.

The yellow evening light that shafted in through the window caught on the grey streaks in his father's hair. Just a few years ago, his mane had been as golden as his own. Back then, he'd smiled more freely, full of laughter and japery. Once, at the End of Year festival he'd lifted the platter to cut the turkey, only to burst into uproarious laughter as the live turkey exploded from the plate to crash along the table. Plates and glasses had smashed, a noble woman's scream splitting the air as her ermine cloak was stained with wine, and Richard had laughed so hard he'd cried.

Yet it seemed to Richard that as the years passed his father's crown had ground down on his head like a mortar and pestle, losing a little more of him each day. His face was lined. He no longer laughed so freely. The end of year turkeys were no longer so fresh they leapt off the table and had to be subdued by five servants.

Richard teased out a loose thread on the armchair as he thought of going to this strange place, leaving his father alone in this nest of vipers.

"Who shall I be staying with?"

"Lord Aston and his family. He's a good friend of mine. He'll take good care of you. And he has two sons— I believe the eldest is almost your age. Perhaps a chance to make a new friend." It was a gentle nudge, for his father knew of Richard's loneliness.

"That would be nice," Richard said, as he thought: I doubt it. No doubt these boys were just like the rest of the aristocracy: sycophantic leeches happy to cling to him for favours and gifts. He'd long since learnt the painful lesson that few people wanted to be friends with Richard. Only the son of their king.

"I think you'll like it there, Richard. It's been a long time since I've visited, but I always thought it a beautiful part of the country. This kingdom will be yours to protect one day. I should like for you to see as much of it as you can."

Despite his weariness, when King Ferdinand spoke of his country, the love for it he held still radiated out of him. Enough that Richard could bask in its rays and feel it too.

Perhaps, this wouldn't be so bad.

Richard thought of the past, back when the court would still break up in July, the royal household taking summer at Gralesyde. The long warm evenings spent swimming in the lake until dusk, his father capturing him in a huge fluffy towel when he climbed out, shivering and sleepy and sated. _You're going to turn into a fish_ , Richard, he'd said, laughing. He'd never even known the words _poison_ or _assassination_.

"I see you've still got that old ring I gave you." His father nodded at the old heirloom he'd gifted Richard several summers ago. "Make sure you bring it to Lhant with you. If anything happens, he can use it to protect you."

"Him? Who?" Protect him? With a ring?

"Ah, don't worry." There was a shadow of an old sadness as his father ran his hand through greyed hair. "At any rate, you'll be perfectly safe. I'll be sending some of the best members of the Royal Guard with you."

Any of hope of having any fun this summer vanished like an ice cube sat out in the sun, disolving into water.

"Oh… right. Of course," he said.

House arrest in Lhant or in the castle; what difference did it make?

"Richard… it won't always be like this. Things will get better one day, I promise."

He wanted to ask: _how?_

The sunny home from his early childhood had become a frozen palace. After the assassination attempt had been foiled the gates were shut. Staff laid off and reduced. The old stone walls echoed with suspicions and secrets, and the horse mistress stopped inviting him out to the stables. His friend, the kennel boy, became shy. No one wanted to be alone with him. No-one wanted to be under suspicion.

The worst thing was that everyone suspected the man who was behind it. His Uncle Cedric, or one of his cronies. Yet his father steadfastly denied his brother's involvement.

King Ferdinand was too soft, his critics claimed. He placed his faith too easily. He shied away from war and conflict. Yet Richard knew the truth: his father simply had a big heart. He loved his country, his people, his family.

So, Richard agreed to go to Lhant, because above all else, he'd do anything to make his father happy.

* * *

In the the parlour room, Richard sits on the settee, perched on the very end of the cushion. He watches Asbel's auburn head lent down over the fireplace as he strikes the flint, over and over. Grumbling to himself as it refuses to catch.

If the cold is good for anything, it at least disguises Richard's shivering. He forces the flats of his hands down on his knees, to stop them from tangling themselves into knots.

It feels as though the storm has crept inside the walls and into his blood. All the windows are shuttered and a restlessness like an itch has crawled inside Richard, climbed up into his marrow and whipped his blood into a silent, stifled frenzy. He wants to shout, stamp his feet, do _something_ —

"There." Asbel exhales a sigh. One final spark of the flint and the flames have sprung to life, blackening and curling the bits of kindling. Richard forces himself to sit still as Asbel takes a place beside him. He appreciates that he doesn't sit too close. "At least now we won't freeze to death," he says, smiling a tight smile. Richard looks down at his hands.

The wind howls. The storm itself is sentient: its shout a low, whistling cry. It throbs and pulses against the window, as though it wants to come in.

He waits for Asbel to speak, but his friend is silent. Richard's own mouth is full of cotton wool. But, unable to bear this stifling silence between them any longer, he swallows it down. "You said you wanted to speak with me?" he asks.

"Y-yeah. Sorry. I was just wondering how to start. Honestly, I kind of suck at this sort of thing…"

Asbel trails away, and Richard continues to stare at his cuticles, the storm continues to creep inside.

His friend begins again, in starts and stops and sudden bursts of inspiration.

"I've been thinking for so long about how to fix all of this. All year. Wondering what… what I can do so things can go back to normal. And I. I really suck at this, but—"

"Asbel."

"—And I originally thought that if we had enough time, then maybe I could, we could—"

"Asbel," Richard says again, firmer. He pushes his gaze up from his hands to meet his friend's eyes. Asbel stops, and Richard can see the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows.

"Richard?"

His heart clenches. Asbel is trying so hard, and yet… "I know that you just want to help me. But it's okay. It's okay that not everything can be fixed. You've already done so much for me, Asbel. I promise you, I'll be fine. You have my word." It takes every bit of effort inside him, but Richard forces himself to meet Asbel's eyes as he speaks.

He won't fall apart again like the months after the wedding. His kingdom relies on him too much for him to put his health and well being in danger. And more than that, he never wants Sophie to see him like that again. He'd be strong: for his kingdom and for her, and for himself, too.

He'd continue to carry the hope Asbel gave him long ago: that slice of summer-time that'd cracked open his crystalline world, and move forward.

"All I wish is that we could part on good terms. That would be good enough for me."

"No." The doubt is gone from Asbel's voice. His jaw is set tight, red splotches high on his cheekbones. The sudden change in him— Asbel's direct, unwavering gaze- sends a thrill through Richard. "That's not enough for me. And it shouldn't be for you either."

It's Richard who speaks uncertainly now: "Asbel? How do you…"

"Please listen, Richard. It was wrong for me to have kissed you like I did at Sophie's birthday party, like I thought a kiss could magically fix everything. But I meant it. And I don't take it back. I didn't do what I did to take pity on you. I've never felt like that about you, Richard. I did it because I love you." The spots of colour on his cheeks bleed into each other, and Asbel covers his face with a hand. "Ah, I didn't mean to tell you like that. I had a whole speech planned in my head. Told you I'm bad at this… geez."

Asbel's still mumbling to himself, but Richard can hear nothing but his heartbeat rushing in his ears, thudding like the snow sloughing against the shutters. He heard Asbel's words clear enough, but his head refuses to process them. They're snowflakes, melting in his hands.

"You're kidding," he manages to say.

Asbel removes his hand from his face. "You know I'd never kid to you about something like this," he says.

Slowly, Richard nods. But the snowflakes are still slipping through his fingers. He's spent so long imagining Asbel coming to him, confessing to him in such a mannner that this has to be some sort of fever dream.

"But," he begins, for his head is full of _but_ s, "why? Asbel, you have a wonderful woman who loves you.. Why ever would you choose someone like me, over her?"

It's Asbel's turn to splutter. "Someone like you? What do you mean by that? Richard, don't you see what an amazing person you are? You're more hard-working than anyone I know. You're compassionate to everyone, even strangers. And— I was going to say you understand how people feel, but I guess that one's not completely true. I can tell you're not believing anything I'm saying right now, are you?" The words leave Asbel, hang between them.

Because snowflakes are still melting on Richard's skin. Because: compassionate? Hard-working? Empathetic? "Those are just qualities a king should have. And if I'm hard working, it's only to atone for my mistakes," he says.

"We all have things we regret, Richard."

Richard is trembling, and it's not from the cold. He clamps hold of his arms with whitening fingers, and his voice arches sharply. "I'm sorry, Asbel, but I hardly think that you… cooking a few weird mabo curries… compares to the hundreds of people I hurt, to the damage I did to the world."

"Richard…" There's pain in Asbel's voice as he reaches for Richard. Richard pulls away, as though Asbel's touch is a brand. He doesn't deserve it.

His friend's voice is tight. "So you plan on what, being a martyr? Denying yourself love? Refusing to let yourself get close to someone? Isn't that how all of this started in the first place?"

Richard flinches at that. Asbel isn't wrong. "Well…"

Asbel leans forward in the seat. "You said you're only doing what a good king should, but I don't think you realise how extraordinary that is in itself. Think about Chancellor Eigen… or what kind of a king your uncle would have made. There's a reason you're loved. Your people have forgiven you… isn't it about time you forgave yourself?"

The wind is whistling, and with a rumble and a crack something else hits the ground. Richard wonders what will be left standing when this night is through.

Forgiveness is never an option Richard has given himself.

When he makes no reply, Asbel clears his throat. There's a vulnerability in his voice that makes Richard raise his head from his own self-loathing. "There are things I regret too, Richard. Believe it or not, more than all the terrible curries I've ever made. For years, I held myself responsible for what happened in the catacombs when we were kids."

"But… how could that possibly be your fault, Asbel? You were a child," Richard says.

"But I'd promised my father I'd protect her. In my mind back then, my recklessness had gotten Sophie killed. I put everything I had into growing out of the selfish child I used to be. I told myself that nobody would be hurt again because of me…"

* * *

And yet, he'd failed. He'd failed time after time, his shoulders burdened with failure after failure. All that training, and he hadn't been there to save his father, forever lost along with a broken relationship he'd never be able to mend. He couldn't save Lhant from Fendel's invasion, only saved by his brother's intervention. And then, his brother had tossed him aside, too.

He was always a step too slow. A moment too late. Behind the film of his eyes he always saw the cost of his recklessness, and in the crucial moment, Asbel hesitated.

When they'd been reunited, he'd thrown his whole self into helping Richard. Someone who _needed_ him. And yet once again, he'd faltered. He'd been too late to work out what was happening to his friend. He'd stood, frozen, as Richard became someone else, rendered helpless by his own fear and indecision as Richard and Lambda drained valkines after valkines. The one thought in his mind: how could he solve this? How could he fix this, without hurting anyone? Without any one else having to suffer?

Just as he had done this past year, spinning in circles, searching for the perfect solution that didn't exist. Frozen by the ice of his indecision. Yet another thing to regret.

"Asbel..." Richard had been curled up on himself tightly, hands clasping his arms. But as he listened closely to Asbel, his whitening grip slackened. He reaches out a tentative hand to his shoulder. A branch boughed down under the weight of snow, he hesitates, and his hand droops and drops away.

How did he and Richard let this ice steal between them?

Fingers dig into the material of his trousers. "Most of all, I regret trying to convince myself that I was in love with Cheria. I wanted everybody to be happy, so I ignored how I felt and became the person everyone else wanted. Everyone in Lhant wanted me to take up my father's title, so I did. Everyone pushed me to confess to Cheria… enough that I began to think that was what I wanted myself."

"But the two of you seemed so happy," Richard says.

"I thought I was. You used to read those adventure books too, right? That's what happens at the end: the hero beats the bad guy and gets the treasure, and he comes home and marries the girl." He definitely didn't come home for a fling with his king.

Colour gently fills Richard's cheeks. He bites down on his lower lip. "To be honest, the handsome knights were the main reason I read those books."

"Oh." Asbel's mouth hangs ajar. "Was that after I…"

"After I heard you'd joined the Academy, yes."

"Oh," Asbel says, again. The careful speech he'd planned after speaking with the Captain had packed its suitcase and gone home.

It's not the first time he's ever wished he could go back into the past to kick himself for being so blind.

"You— always knew?" he asks.

Richard nods. "Always."

He speaks quickly: "There were so many times where I almost came to see you. Once I even came to the castle, but I was told you were with the King, and— I don't know now, I guess it hit me that maybe a prince didn't really have time to spend with someone like me."

"I tried to visit you, too. I even sneaked in with the crowd to watch a few of your sparring matches."

"You did?" Asbel exclaims.

"Yes, and I always wished I could speak with you again. Except I kept coming up with excuses. Before I came to Lhant I was always alone… it was very easy just to slip back into that."

It's amazing, Asbel thinks. They had come so close to meeting, and yet kept missing one another. Just as they'd passed one another in the snowstorm, they kept passing by one another's feelings.

His life has been riddled by failures, but this time, Asbel refuses to hesitate.

Richard's smile is morning dew, small and sweet and transient as it vanishes, and he asks, "But Asbel… if all of this is true, what do you propose to do? You're married. You have Eric."

His mouth is dry. He swallows. "When I return to Lhant.. I'll tell Cheria the truth. Everything."

Richard's sharp intake of breath, caught in his throat. "And then?"

Asbel tugs up a weak, crooked smile. "Guess that part's up to you, Richard. I would be your knight… if you'd have me."

Richard's eyes are wide. His hands have dropped from hugging his sides and his mouth is open. "You'd throw away your title?"

"My father's title," Asbel says. It can hardly be called throwing something away when the gift itself was unwanted. For all he'd tried, he'd never felt comfortable under its weight. It belonged to Aston. Let him have it back.

The gears turn behind Richard's eyes, yet the distance in them lingers. He sees the trapped echo of Richard's words in them: _Why would you ever choose someone like me?_

"What do you say, Richard? May I serve by your side?"

Richard's lips press tightly together. Asbel wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him, tell him he deserves the love he's denying himself.

Yet he knows: to do so would only force Richard back inside himself.

Still, Richard hesitates, and at the thought of rejection Asbel's mouth turns dry. What will he do, if Richard turns him down here? His hands tighten over his knees, and in the firelight the emerald ring he wears sparkles.

And he realises: the answer has been in front of his eyes all along.

He holds it up to Richard. "Do you know the story of this ring?" he asks.

Caught up in thought, Richard pulls himself away to stare at Asbel, brow pinched. "You know I do. It's the ring I gave to you."

* * *

Surely, Asbel can't think he could have ever forgotten? Yet Asbel holds aloft his hand, and Richard can't help but wonder if this is some sort of practical joke. In his mind's eye he'll never erase the image of his ring, winking up at him from the sand.

 _I didn't save you for money or power or because you're some dumb prince! I, I did it for..._

"I mean about before you gave it to me," Asbel corrects himself.

Before? Richard has vague memories of his father giving it to him and telling him to look after it, but… "It's an old heirloom. I was never told it was the key for Excalibur." There was very little ceremony when Ferdinand had handed it over. Rather, it felt like he wanted to be rid of the thing.

"I had no idea either, until the Captain told me about it earlier," Asbel says. Richard feels like he's skipped part of this story.

"Malik told you what?"

"About how your father and mine were like us," Asbel says, eyes full of a strange brightness.

And Richard is still… not following. "I thought you knew they were friends. That's why my father gave yours Excalibur."

"Yeah, but why do you think King Ferdinand kept the key instead of giving it to him so he could use it?"

"I believe Lord Aston thought it was too much power for one person to hold," Richard says.

But Asbel shakes his head. In the firelight, his eyes sparkle. "The Captain told me the truth. Excalibur was King Ferdinand's pledge of devotion to my father. They weren't just friends. They were lovers. The King kept the key for himself so they could share the sword's power. Together, they'd be strong."

"Are you sure that… this wasn't one of Malik's ideas of a joke?" Richard asks, but even as the question leaves his lips he can't help but remember: how before he'd gifted Richard the ring it'd never left his father's hand. And it was true that he'd often spoken of Aston fondly, even if the man never came to visit. And sometimes, how his mouth would twist into a grimace as he spoke of him. There'd be a look of pain in his eyes, before he smoothed it away and lifted Richard into his lap, to ask him about his day.

It was true that he'd heard rumours, yet growing up in the castle he'd breathed nothing but rumours. It was just another piece of slander flung at his father.

And yet if that were true, then—

"What happened between them?" Richard asks.

"My grandfather died, and Dad had to come home to Lhant and carry on the family line," Asbel says.

And years later, after holding onto it for so long, his father had given away his ring.

" _But Father… this is your favourite ring," Richard had said. He'd stared at the heirloom placed unceremoniously in his hands._

" _All the better for you to have it, Richard. I've no need of it anymore," his father said. "Put it away somewhere safe if it's not to your liking."_

 _Ferdinand had been leafing through h_ _is paperwork as he spoke. He hadn't looked up, except to bid Richard a goodnight._

Even to think of his father after these years raises a lump in Richard's throat. He'd always thought he knew his father well, yet all this time, he'd never known what _weight_ he carried on his fingers. If only, he can't help but think, his father had had the power of Excalibur on that night… then, perhaps…

"Richard… are you alright?" Asbel asks him.

Richard nods, swallowing down the thickness in his throat. There's no point to thinking _what if_ s.

He can see his own thought reflected back in Asbel's eyes: will one day he sit his own son or daughter on his lap, and tell them stories of the important person they once had, and let slip away?

History is repeating itself.

Did their fathers once sit side by side like this, in a conversation like this one? Did his own father's heart twist like it was breaking at the ice that'd grown in the space between them?

Did Ferdinand feel that same shock of static as Aston took his hand, as Asbel now takes his hand, squeezing it tenderly?

"Richard, we don't have to make the mistakes they made." Asbel's hand is pleasantly warm in his, and inside Richard knows he should pull away, and yet-

"We could be happy, Richard."

"Asbel…"

"I know you think you don't deserve to be loved, Richard, but you do." Asbel's grip is fiercer, and there's that _spark_ back in his eyes. His touch is no longer hesitating. "All I want is a chance to prove it to you. Think of all that we've accomplished together. I know that we can be something greater." Asbel's hesitance. His own fear. "Like your father's ring and my father's sword. I know we can be stronger together."

For a few moments, Richard lets himself imagine: Asbel by his side, as his knight. Getting up in the morning together, laughing at Asbel when he puts his shirt on back to front. Growing old with Asbel. That he could be loved. That he deserved to be loved.

"Ah— Richard— are you…?" That fierce determined gaze is washed away by worry, and Richard realises his eyes are filled with tears. "Ur. Sorry, I didn't mean to… I mean, I told you I really am bad at this kind of thing."

Richard tries to regain his composure. He fails. Manages out, voice thick: "And you say I'm the one who's bad at interpreting people's feelings."

"I— huh?"

"I want all those things too."

Asbel's hand drops from the nervous scratch at his neck. "Richard— you mean—?"

"I've no doubt you'll be a fine edition to the Royal Guard, Asbel." His throat is still painfully tight, but he's smiling, so tight it pulls against the corners of his mouth.

Asbel's answering smile is the sun coming out, and tucked in the corners of it Richard can see the boyish traces of the child who threw his ring into the sand and chipped away the ice of his world. He feels it like the sun on his skin, bright white light hot enough to illuminate him from his head to the tips of his toes.

"Richard," Asbel exclaims, and he's the boy stood by the valkines turning in excitement to see him again, white teeth exposed and hand held high. Richard doesn't know who moves forward first, but his arms are around Asbel, and Asbel's holding him just as tightly.

There's still so much that will need to be settled— Lhant's fate, and Cheria, but for now it's enough to put those thoughts aside and hold Asbel and be held by him. He's still not sure, either, that he deserves the love Asbel is willing to share with him. Yet his trust in Asbel has never been unfounded.

For him, and with him, Richard wants to try.

* * *

It feels so good to hold Richard that Asbel doesn't want to pull away. So _this_ is what it's supposed to feel like, he thinks. Richard's body is hot and tight up against him, and he turns his head to press his face up to his silky blond hair. His familiar half-forgotten smell grabs Asbel and tugs him back, and the two of them are stood on the balcony at Barona castle once again, the cool summer night at his throat and his hand at Richard's waist. In his embrace time is erased between them, and the pain of separation begins, already, to heal.

Yet they've been up all night and exhaustion is winning out over the fear, the anxiety, the heady elation. He peels himself back, Richard's hand still firmly clasped in his own.

If he had it his own way, he'd never let it go.

There's a knock at the door, and Asbel momentarily freezes, panic reflected back in Richard's frozen face. Before the door slips open and both of them can smile again: it's only Sophie.

"There you are, Asbel! You've got to see the—" Her eyes slide to Richard in surprise to see the two of them together. She looks back towards him, and Asbel can feel her calculating how close the two of them are sitting, that old spark of intuition in her widening eyes, in the hesitant smile beginning to bloom on her lips.

"Is… everything okay now?" she asks.

Asbel answers her smile. "Yeah," he says.

Sophie almost barrels the two of them- and the settee with it- over with the force of her embrace. "I'm so glad." The words are smooshed up up against his jacket. "Things will really go back to normal?"

He looks over Sophie's head to Richard, who's smile is fading somewhat, into a determined expression. He nods.

Asbel thanks Richard silently with his eyes. He's glad he's here to share his courage with him. "Well… not exactly. There's some things we need to talk about, Sophie."

The three of them settle down on the settee together, and Asbel explains: "Things… might be hard for a while." He threads his fingers through hers. "Cheria and you and I and Eric… we might not be able to all live together anymore. Not like we used to, anyway."

Sophie looks down at their hands, biting down on her lip. She already knows. "Cheria… will be upset, won't she?"

His heart clenches. No way around it. No way to sugar coat it, either. "Yes," he says. He squeezes her hand. "But I promise one day, it'll all be okay. Whatever happens, all of us love you."

Sophie is quiet, mulling this over. At last she says: "I know." She squeezes back, and after everything, it's as though she's the one comforting him.

She turns to Richard, and tells him something mystifying: "I'll plant those red roses."

Richard's response is to laugh and pull her in for a hug, kissing her on the parting of her hair.

She tells them: "The storm stopped."

Asbel realises: the house is silent.

"She's right," Richard says. "I didn't even notice."

"I came to show you," Sophie tells him.

"Show me?"

"C'mon!" she's up, tugging him up to his feet. "You too, Richard!"

A puzzled look is exchanged, but they allow Sophie to lead them out into the garden, stopping to pull on coats, shoes. Asbel can't find his, so Richard throws a spare pair of thigh-high boots at him. He wraps one of his warm cloaks around Sophie.

Outside, the world has been transformed. While they were talking, night passed them by, the horizon rimmed with a deep, navy blue. Asbel turns his head to see it all reflected in Richard's wide, wondering eyes.

The entire world is white. Snow-drifts pile higher than Richard's thigh-high boots. The black crag of Fendel Tower is silhouetted sharply against a crystalline landscape. It's pure. Untouched. As though, overnight, the world has been reborn.

Like maybe, there really are second chances.

Asbel can't help but think of another night, long ago, where the rules of his world had been rewritten. He doesn't have to say another word: he can see it all in Sophie and Richard's eyes.

Sophie still has a hold of his left hand, and silently, he entwines his right with Richard's. The sun slips up from above the horizon, the sparkle of sun on snow like the glimmer of light on water.

For so long, Asbel's thought of lineages and legacies: his duties, what he'll leave behind. Yet in the spring, the snow will melt away. But the three of them will remember this morning forever. He thinks, maybe that's what really matters: the memory of sunlight on snow, and his daughter and lover's hands in his.

Debris torn by the storm pits the snow; it'll take a long time to clean away. Thinking of the future, Asbel's heart is filled with anxiety. But for now, this feels like hope.


	9. epilogue

_**Epilogue: a future to strive for**_

 _One year later…_

Time is strange.

This is the thought at the forefront of Sophie's mind as she finishes the final loops of her braid and anchors six foot of hair in place with a ribbon. Standing in front of the full length looking glass, she smooths down the powder blue dress, the same thing she wore to Eric's birthday this year. Today's not a party, but it's still an important day all the same.

Just four years ago, she couldn't even dress herself. Clasps confused her. Laces perplexed her. She could perform the triple backflip coded into her particles, but buttons were a mystery she couldn't unravel.

But Cheria had taught her how to dress herself. Richard had demystified the enigma of laces. Even Pascal had— quite inadvertently— taught her a lesson about the consequences of not bathing.

Yet the more Sophie learnt of the world, the more she realised just how little she understood. How time not just added lines but changed people— sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. People smiled when they were happy, but also for any number of reasons. People and relationships changed, and the powerlessness of it all was a bitter pill to swallow.

Sophie's eyes move from her reflection to the plush bear Asbel won for her at the end of year festival. To the collection of coloured smudges Eric has presented to her, carefully tacked to the wall. To the collection of botany books Captain Malik regularly posts to her when he comes upon them. The little cactus Hubert had given her is flourishing in the windowsill. She'd been dubious when Hubert gifted her the prickly little thing, yet even the cactus had blossomed, a pretty pink flower perched on its head like one of Isabelle's fascinators.

She chose not to dwell on the circumstances of her birth, yet some days Sophie can't help but wonder: what would Emeraude think, if she could see her creation now?

The polite rap at her door pulls her from her introspection. Fingers smooth down the silky touch of her dress. "Come in."

Frederic gives her a small bow. "Young Sophie, have you perchance seen Master Eric? I've looked over the house from top to bottom and I'd hoped I might find him with you. The transport is here and waiting."

She shakes her head, struggling to bite down the smile, since Frederic looks worried. How many times has Eric evaded Kerri's clutches now?

"I'll help you find him," she promises him. "He can't have gone far."

Yet, Eric isn't in any of his usual hiding places. The airing cupboard on the second floor is devoid of small children, though she double checks under the blankets he sometimes burrows under just to make sure. The crawl space under his bed is empty, too.

Sophie steps out into the back garden, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the bright morning sun. Spring has come back to the garden, bright with tulips and bluebells, decked with dew.

From behind her, the gooseberry bush erupts into badly stifled giggles.

Sophie swallows down her own laughter and raises her hand. Ostentatiously mimes looking this way and that. "Now, where could Eric be? He's so good at hiding that I might never find him…"

The gooseberry bush replies in another peal of giggles.

"I do feel sorry for him. He's going to miss the turtlez transport. And Richard promised there was going to be chocolate, too…"

Chocolate is clearly a magic word, because at it a scruffy head pops up out of the bushes, leaves in Eric's hair and a half-picked scab on his cheek.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello to you, too."

But before she can take another step toward to him to scoop him up, he's gone again, all giggles and rustling. Only to reemerge with another, "Hello!"

Eric's still a man of few words. _Hello_ , _no_ , and _chocolate_ are some of his favourites.

"Hello," says Eric.

"Hello," replies Sophie.

Laughter cuts across the garden. "Look at that, Frederic. He's caught Sophie in an infinite _hello_ loop again." It's Kerri, shaking her head in laughter, flanked by Frederic at her side. She lifts Eric, protesting, from the gooseberry bush. "What a mess you're in! Frederic, would you prepare a change of clothes? We can't send him to Barona in this state."

Eric stops squirming in her arms. "Papa?" he asks.

"Yes, your papa will be there," says Kerri. "Don't you want to look nice for him?"

"No," says Eric.

"Are you saying no because you like being a mess, or because you like saying no?" Kerri asks, exhaling a sigh.

Eric's reply is a firm and decisive, "No."

If Kerri had a spare hand, Sophie thinks she'd plant it squarely on her face. She looks toward Sophie and says, "Sometimes he reminds me so much of his father, and not in a good way."

Sophie thinks he's marvellous.

He's both Asbel and Cheria, and yet he's more than that. Day by day, he picks up a little more from the people of Lhant. Frederic inadvertently taught him the fun an airing cupboard could bring. After trying for so long to keep him eating healthy, Mrs Mccarthy taught him the word chocolate. And, even from Sophie he's learnt the love for—

"I've packed some snacks, Sophie, in case he gets hungry," Kerri tells her.

"Crablettes?" Eric asks.

He reaches out with little reaching hands for Sophie, and Kerri relinquishes her grandson into Sophie's arms. "I bet Richard will have some for us when we get to Barona," she tells him.

"Now," he says.

"No. Later." He scrunches up his face at this, and Sophie kisses the silly pouting boy on his nose.

"Are you absolutely sure you'll be alright with him on your own, Sophie? I could send Frederic along with you," Kerri says.

"It's okay. We'll have fun, won't we, Eric?" Sophie asks, but Eric's still too distracted by the damp end of his nose where she'd kissed him. "Are you… sure you don't want to come too, Kerri?"

But Kerri shakes her head, still heavy with disappointment. "Asbel's a grown adult now. If he wants to throw his life away, I can't stop him. But that doesn't mean I have to stand there and watch him do it."

There are so many things Sophie is excited to teach Eric, to share with him, just as her friends had shared with her. And yet, there are things Sophie wishes Eric would never have to learn about. Like the disappointment in Kerri's eyes, or the disapproving frowns she's seen on Frederic and many others' faces in Lhant. Or the day they'd all heard Cheria's voice, raised in a near-hysterical shout, telling her husband to get out, that she never wanted to see his face again.

On that day, Sophie took her baby brother up to Lhant hill, and sat with him there until sunset, talking to him about all the different types of flowers that grew there. There they'd stayed until Frederic came for them, Sophie wiping the tears out of her eyes.

She wants to tell Eric that his life will be full of happiness. That he will never, ever, have reason to frown. And yet, for all the strength in her fists, the most crushing lesson Sophie has learnt is that however much power you possess, there are still some precious things you cannot protect.

* * *

Under Lord Aston's rule, his desk had been sparsely decorated and regimented. Under his son's, it was sloughed under with an avalanche of disorganised paperwork. Under the new lord of Lhant's guiding hand, however, the desk in the study was clutter-free and peppered with colourful sticky notes.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Eric wanted to say goodbye. We're about ready to leave." Sophie stands at the open study door, Eric in her arms.

"That's alright. Bailey and I were just about done," Cheria says, rising from the seat behind her desk. "Thank you Bailey."

"Thank you, Lord Cheria." Bailey gives Sophie a polite nod and gives them privacy.

Cheria no longer ties her hair in pigtails. A few weeks after Asbel had moved out, she'd had come home sporting a new haircut, chin-length and springy. It suits her.

She takes Eric and gives him a kiss. "Be a good boy for Sophie for me, alright?" she tells him.

Nothing can stay the same forever. Sophie knows that now.

Asbel had written to Sophie about his struggle to make contingency plans for the Lhant lordship. And then, while he was still dithering, Cheria had calmly, and as if it were the most natural thing, taken over the day-to-day operations in Lhant.

Sophie hadn't like listening to their angry and upset conversations, yet there had been some she hadn't been able to avoid overhearing.

"I don't want you to feel like you have to do this, Cheria. Until Eric's old enough, Richard can send someone from the capital, and—" Asbel had said.

Cheria had interrupted him. "And what will someone from Barona care for Lhant?" Her voice was scathing, chipped. "This is my home. I mean to protect it. Go have fun playing knights in the capital, Asbel. I hope it makes you happier than I could." For all her anger, Cheria's voice had hitched at the end, and unable to listen to any more, Sophie had slipped away.

Cheria still can't completely shake off the cloak of sadness that clings to her. Yet here in the study, she stands a little straighter than she did a year ago.

She picks a piece of gooseberry bush from Sophie's hair and smooths it down. "You look lovely, Sophie. Say hi to everyone for me, okay?"

"Okay," says Sophie.

She wishes she could say to her, _let's all go together_. Yet she holds the words in check, and makes her goodbyes. Another lesson she's learnt: that words can cut just as easily as steel. Even if she still hasn't completely worked out which words are okay to say aloud, and which are better not to speak.

"If I'm honest, there was always a part of me that knew," Cheria had confessed. A week before, Asbel had packed his bags and left for Barona. Now, the double bed the two of them shared seemed far too large. She'd sat with Cheria on the quilted bedspread. Black circles ringed Cheria's eyes, and she hadn't changed out of the same ugly mauve jumper in days. She stared down at her hands. "I mean, I knew him and Richard must have fought about something, but Asbel wouldn't tell me at thing. I couldn't' believe Asbel wouldn't try to make amends with Richard of all people. To do nothing wasn't like him at all. And with Richard being so distant, too…"

Cheria's voiced hitched in her throat. "That was why I never pushed Asbel hard to make up with him. I guess I was afraid of what would happen if they did…"

It'll all be okay, someday, Asbel had told her.

But as Sophie had reached out for a hug, Cheria's shoulders shuddering against her, Sophie had hoped _someday_ would come soon.

* * *

Eric loves everything about the turtlez. He loves their shells and their funny voices, and he loves riding in the turtlez transport: the methodical heavy plot of the turtlez's turtle, watching the world creak past out of the window.

He kneels on the cushioned seat, head poking out of the window, utterly taken in by the Windor countryside as it rolls by.

"Sophie! Sophie!" He stabs a finger in the direction of a butterfly as it flutters past, grabbing at Sophie's bolero to get her attention.

"How pretty! That's a butterfly, Eric."

"Bu'fly," repeats Eric, and he watches it with intent until it vanishes from sight, beating his feet happily against the cushion.

Asbel and Hubert still haven't stopped reminding her of how they'd all first met. How she'd been so distracted by a butterfly she'd nearly walked straight off a cliff. That same single-minded determination is in Eric's stare. She has no doubt if they were on Lhant hill, Eric would do the same.

Her heart lifts as she thinks of Asbel and their other friends waiting in Barona for them.

"Dog?" Eric asks, tugging again at her sleeve. Sophie follows the arrow of his finger and laughs.

"That's a cow. A Windor cow. That's where milk comes from."

Cheria had said her and Asbel's marriage was a mistake. And yet, if they'd never got married, Eric would never have been born. And she never would have got to tell him what a butterfly or a cow is.

"How," Eric asks, and Sophie frowns. Just how do you get milk from a cow? _Maybe if you asked it nicely?_ Sophie doesn't want to provide Eric with the incorrect information.

"I'm not sure. But we'll ask Asbel— your daddy, when we see him." She nods. Asbel will know the right answer.

Even if this world holds many sad things, there are still so many wonderful parts to it, too. Just like the flower that had blossomed from the prickly, ugly cactus Hubert had given her, this world could be unexpected and beautiful.

There's still so much Sophie has left to learn.

* * *

Asbel had spent years imagining this day as a boy; countless scenarios overlaying in his mind as he had curled up in his cramped bunk, back at the Academy. It was easy to put aside the scratchy wool blanket, the incessant snoring of his bunk mate as he imagined it: the day of his graduation. The snore that drilled into his brain like a siren would be nothing compared to the pride and sense of achievement he'd wear like a badge.

Yet, as Asbel fumbles with the buckles of his armour, he could never have predicted the nervousness bubbling in his stomach.

"The other knights make this look so easy," he mutters to himself, yanking at the new, stiff leather.

There's a chuckle from behind him. "It'd help if you weren't putting it on back to front, Asbel."

"I— huh." Embarrassment colours his cheeks as he looks down to see the breastplate with the Windorean emblem on the front instead of the back. That does explain a few things.

"Here," says Richard. There's a hand at his shoulder, and Asbel allows him to turn him around, pulling a face when Richard's mouth turns up in an amused grin, an unkingly snicker leaving him. "However did you manage this?" He tugs at the tangle Asbel's made of the buckle.

"I'm a little nervous, I guess."

"I can tell," says Richard, and, "Put your arms up for a moment." He unbuckles the breastplate and faces it the correct way. Richard leans down, eyelashes dipped in concentration as he secures Asbel's new set of armour. It's bulky and will take some getting used to, but Asbel has no complaints when Richard's breath is tickling at Asbel's neck, head bowed, exposing the parting of his hair, close enough to kiss.

Except he's still feeling vaguely queasy, a feeling redoubled when Richard pulls his armour straight and turns him around toward the mirror.

"Better," Richard says.

Asbel's breath catches in his throat at the image reflected back: the King's bedroom, Richard stood in his regalia with a member of the Royal Guard by his side.

Except the knight is _him_. He's made it.

And for some reason, Asbel can't decide how he feels about that.

"Thanks Richard," he says. Strange, to hear his voice leave this sharply dressed knight. "It's probably a little embarrassing for a member of the Royal Guard to ask the King for help dressing."

Richard smiles. "Well, rest assured I reserve this treatment just for you, Asbel." But the smile drops when he sees Asbel's face fall in the mirror. "Asbel?" he asks.

"I overheard some of the other cadets yesterday. Talking about how I was being afforded special treatment. That the only reason I was graduating was because I was your… because we're…"

"Gossip, Asbel. Nothing more," Richard says.

Asbel nods, his neck stiff in the new armour. He knew when he chose this path a year ago, in Fendel, that it wouldn't be easy. Yet hearing others talking about him— or far worse— about Richard, still stings. More than once, he'd lost his temper.

"I don't get it, Richard. How do you not let it get to you?"

"Because it's untrue. You've earned your place here, Asbel, no matter what anyone else says. I promise you Captain Mirelle would not have accepted you into the Guard if you weren't suitable."

Asbel snorts. Now _that_ he could believe. Captain Mirelle was fair, but firm, and over the last few months she'd put Asbel through the wringer. That he was a provincial lord and favourite of the King meant nothing to the woman.

The past year had been one of the hardest of his life. After sitting behind his desk for so long, returning to the intensive knight training had been painful. He'd had so much to catch up on, so much that he'd forgotten as he'd sat on his backside, doing paperwork. Neither Captain Mirelle, nor his fellow cadets, had offered him any quarter. So many evenings he'd returned from his training too exhausted to even undress, instead simply falling into bed, every muscle in his body burning.

Yet, it'd felt _good_ to be moving again. Sparring with the Captain, the thrill of combat stirring his lethargic blood, he could put the rest aside: both the cadets' jealousy, and the parting words Cheria had sent with him, that'd nipped at his heels all the way to Barona.

Stood in front of the mirror, trying to carouse his hair into some semblance of order, he still can't completely shake them off.

 _Have fun playing knights_ , she'd told him. _I'll take care of our home._

He's a grown man with a young son. So why is it that reflected in the glass, Asbel sees a nervous boy, playing dress up in an adult's armour?

There's a knock at the door. Richard calls for them to enter and the servant steps inside with a respectful bow. He no longer looks surprised to see the lord of Lhant in the King's chambers. In fact, he keeps his eye completely trained away from Asbel, and directs his gaze only at Richard. "Your Majesty, your guests have arrived. I've asked them to wait in the audience chamber."

The question is out of Asbel's mouth before he can stop it, "Is… the Strahtan ambassador, Hubert Oswell, with them?"

It's only with a certain reluctance that the servant shifts his gaze from the King to the other man in the room. "No, my Lord. The guests are the young mistress Sophie and master Eric, the Fendel Ambassador and Miss Pascal."

"I see… thank you." He'd suspected it would be so, yet all the same, Asbel's heart falls.

"If that's all, your Majesty…"

"Yes, thank you, Lando. We'll be down soon."

As soon as the door is closed, Richard's comforting hand is at his shoulder, squeezing softly. "He'll come around eventually, Asbel," he says.

He can't even blame Hubert for his anger. Cheria had been his childhood friend, too. Logically Asbel knows it's perhaps best he isn't here today. He's already made it quite clear what a damned fool he thought his brother is.

Asbel sighed. "I hope so."

* * *

In the small audience chamber, Asbel barely has the door open when he's almost barelled over by his son's enthusiastic embrace and a cry of, "Papa!"

Asbel's apprehension melts away as he scoops up Eric, both marvelling and grieving over how much he's grown since he last saw his son. "I missed you, little guy."

Sophie puts her arms around the two of them. When she pulls away, her face is serious, brow pinched. "I have something important to ask you, Asbel."

"Oh, sure. What is it, Sophie?" he asks, already going over a list of things that could have gone wrong in Lhant.

"How do you get milk from cows? Can you ask them?" she says.

"Wha—"

"Hey Richard! Asbel! I'm loving the new threads. That metal stuff looks really hoinky doinky." All of a sudden, Pascal is right up in his face, and what on Ephinea does _hoinky doinky_ mean?

"We call that metal stuff armour here, Pascal," Richard tells her, arms folded, amused.

"It's not so fun to hug, though," Sophie says with a frown. "I liked your white jacket better."

"Oh?" says Captain Malik, approaching with a wicked smile. "Would that be the Banana Pie Incident white jacket, Pascal?"

Pascal stamps her foot with a huff. "Look, how was I supposed to know the trajectory of the slingy-thingy aligned with Asbel? It could have happened to anybody."

The nervousness in Asbel's stomach fades away. Surrounded by his friends and their familiar banter, it feels like nothing has changed since they all travelled together.

"I'm pretty sure these kind of things only happen to you, Pascal," he says.

"Aww, c'mon Asbel. I told you I'd give you Mecha Asbel to make up for it."

"And I told you I don't want that thing. It's creepy."

"Creepy," Eric chimes in.

"See? Even my son agrees with me." Asbel ruffles Eric's hair. "It's weird."

Captain Malik nudges Richard and asks, "What do you say, your Majesty? Does it have anything on the original?"

Richard shakes his head seriously, but Asbel could recognise that mischievous twinkle in his eye anywhere. "Not at all. Not nearly as handsome as the original."

Maybe one day, Richard and the Captain will tire of teaming up to tease him, but today is not that day.

Pascal whistles, makes a noise that sounds a lot like _bowchikabowwow_ but Asbel's too busy trying to will the blood rushing to his face away to listen.

"I agree," Sophie says, nodding sincerely. "Asbel looks much nicer than Mecha Asbel."

"T-thanks Sophie…"

"But does this Asbel have rockets?" Pascal asks, brandishing this like a trump card. "Yeah, _exactly_. That's what I thought."

* * *

It's not until much later that they finally move to get the papers signed. Cheria was always the best at calming Pascal, and without her Asbel finds it difficult to stem her… enthusiasm.

It's been a while since they've all been together, and Asbel can't help but wonder if his other friends feel Cheria and Hubert's absense, too. The group dynamic feels strange, without Cheria to fuss over them all, and without his brother's… remarks. Without Hubert here, Asbel feels as though he's taking his brother's portion of teasing.

But at last, the official business of the day gets underway. The Captain and Pascal agree to sign as witnesses. The document is laid out on the desk, waiting for Asbel's signature.

Once he signs it, Asbel will waive away his title and his rights to the Lhant lordship. The title will pass— in name, at least— to Eric, though until he reaches twenty-one, it'll be held by Cheria, the acting lord until Eric comes of age.

There's a sense of gravitas as Richard hands him the quill and a supportive smile. This is the moment he's been waiting for his whole life, since he was eleven years old.

Yet, as Asbel scans the print he's read a dozen times, drafting the document with Richard, something makes his quill hesitate above the page.

He looks over his shoulder at his friends and family, waiting on him. Sophie smiles at him. Pascal gives him a thumbs up. Yet it's Eric his eyes settle on, playing with the bow on Sophie's dress, utterly oblivious to the future they're deciding for him.

He seems far too small for the weight they're about to hang on his shoulders. In him Asbel sees himself, burdened with a destiny he had no part in deciding.

Asbel sets down his quill.

The silence in the audience chamber deepens. The skin between Richard's brow is pinched in confusion. "Asbel…?" his voice is tentative. "This is what you wanted, wasn't it?"

 _You're doing it again, Asbel. Running away from your responsibilities,_ Cheria had said.

"It's not right," says Asbel. "What if Eric doesn't want to be the next lord? All I'm doing is dumping the same responsibility my father did on me onto him."

Was Cheria right? Is all he doing being selfish?

 _Go have fun playing knights, Asbel._

Yet there she was wrong. Asbel had never played at being a knight. He'd simply wanted a stake in his own future.

And his son deserves the same.

To his surprise, Richard smiles. "It's something I've considered too. And my conclusion: we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. If Eric envisages a future other than lord, documents can be re-drafted. Cheria may be happy holding the title, in which case things can be changed. She does seem rather suited to the job, doesn't she?"

"That… can be done?" Asbel asks.

"Well, technically, no." Richard's smile quirks at the corners. "But, then, I am the King. There's never been a woman lord before, but Cheria's quite well-liked in Lhant. If anyone could do it, I believe she can."

"Y'hear that, Asbel Junior?" exclaims Pascal, scooping up Eric to hold him aloft. "You can be whatever you want! The world's your oyster."

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Eric?" Sophie asks him.

"'Scal," Eric replies in response.

"Did my old ears deceive me, or did Eric just say he wanted to be… Pascal?" Malik asks, all toothy grin and wickedness.

"I'm sure he just wanted her attention." Asbel speaks very quickly.

"Is it true, Eric? Do you really want to be Pascal when you grow up?" Sophie asks.

"'Scal," Eric says again, voice firm, and Pascal shrieks with excitement and spins Eric around in an arc, and the words are teetering on the edge of Asbel's tongue to _please, Pascal, put my child down_.

But Eric is laughing now, bursting into a peal of giggles when Pascal boops his nose and tells him, "We'll have to begin your training right away. But I'll warn you, Asbel Junior, it's pretty intensive."

"What sort of training might that consist of, Pascal?" Richard asks her.

"Eating banana pies, of course!"

"Of course," Asbel says, exhaling a groan. He can't help but wonder: what sort of child will Eric grow up to be, surrounded by friends like these?

Richard offers him the quill once more. "Does that allay your fears, Asbel?"

"Well, I have plenty of new ones, but," he pulls his eyes away from the scarf Pascal is draping around Eric's neck to take the quill Richard is holding out to him. "I guess… we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Whether the bridge was made of banana pies, or something else.

Asbel dips his quill into the ink well, and signs his name.

He straightens up to find everyone watching him. Clears his throat, "Now what?"

Richard is beaming at him. "Now you're an official member of the Royal Guard. Congratulations, Asbel."

"Congratulations!" Sophie's hands are pressed together, eyes crinkled in a smile.

"Congrats!" says Pascal.

"Congratulations, Asbel. A job well done." Malik claps a hand on his back.

He can't help but let it slip out: "…That's it?"

Richard gracefully arcs an eyebrow. "I already knighted you years ago. And I squared the paperwork away with Captain Mirelle last night. All we needed was your signature to release your title and make everything official."

"Seems sort of… anti-climactic," he admits.

Malik chuckles. "Welcome to adulthood, Asbel."

"Geez."

"Nah, Asbel's right. This shindig needs some more… pizazz," Pascal says. "What kind of knighting ceremony is this if nobody even gets knighted?"

"What do you suggest, Pascal? I don't have the ceremonial sword with me," Richard says.

"You can use this!" In his hands, with a great deal of ceremony, she lays—

"Your staff?" Richard asks, mouth hooked in a grin. "I admit, I have always envied it."

"I would be honoured, your Majesty." Pascal sweeps into a bow so low her hair touches against the floor.

"Richard, you don't really mean to…" he laughs in apprehension, but Richard's already turning to him with a flourish of his cape, bidding him kneel before his liege. "Richard, this is…"

"Oh, come now, Asbel," Richard says gently, and Asbel sinks into a kneel. It's never been in him to refuse any request Richard makes of him. Especially not now, with Richard's eyes glittering, so full of the life that just a year ago, seemed so dull and matt.

Maybe, he ought to try not being so serious as well.

"Your Majesty, I am at your command." Asbel bows his head.

"Citizens! Will you bear witness to the investing of this elect, Asbel Lhant?"

He glances through his fringe, to snort as Malik and Pascal fall into step, hands snapping behind their backs.

"Of course, your Majesty," and "Sure thing, your Maj'!"

Sophie glances over at them and quickly mimics their steps. "Yes, Richard," she says.

Asbel has a clear view of Richard's heeled boots as they click across the wooden floor, cape swishing as he turns to stand before him.

There's a few seconds of silence, and Asbel glances up through the parting of his hair. Richard clears his throat. "Go on then, Asbel. Say your oaths to me."

"Oh!" He fights off the flush. It's been years since he used them, but the words come back to him instantly.

"I dedicate myself: to chivalry, generousness, loyalty. To the needy, the weak, the injured. I promise to be unwavering; the sword of justice and keeper of truths."

Tradition, to keep your head bowed during the oaths, but now, Asbel raises his eyes to meet Richard's. He'd expected to find him quietly laughing at him. But instead, Richard gazes at him with the softest smile he's ever seen, his gloved hands holding, tight, Pascal's staff.

It feels as though he's been pulled back in time, to the first time he knelt before Richard and said these words. He means every one of them: "I dedicate my service to you, your Majesty, and to the people of Windor. For the rest of my days, I solemnly swear."

He spots the bob of Richard's adam's apple, as though he too is choking back the emotion in his throat. The King's voice is clear, powerful, carrying, but Richard's voice, now, is mild and gentle: "Thank you, Asbel," he says, before the dramatic flourish is back in him. He raises Pascal's staff. "I do dub thee…" he touches either of his shoulders, "Ser Asbel of Lhant. Arise, Ser Asbel."

Asbel pushes himself to his feet, turning with a grin to see Pascal, Malik and Sophie break into applause. Even Eric puts his hands together, entertained by their nonsense.

Pascal cups her hands around her mouth and demands, "And now kiss!"

Asbel is sure he's red to his roots. "Pascal!"

Even Richard looks a little flushed, a mean feat to do. "Ah, I don't recall that being a part of the knighting ceremony," he says.

"Yeah, who cares. Less talky, more smoochy."

Sophie looks from Richard to Asbel in patient expectation.

"Pascal, _no_."

The Captain is the one who steps in to stop this madness. "Calm down, Pascal. You've made the two of them feel shy."

"Ah, phooey," says Pascal, but at last, she relents, and Richard flawlessly distracts her with the prospect of dinner to be served shortly.

All the same, a part of Asbel appreciates how normal their friends have made this. Made them feel as though he two of them aren't strange, their relationship bizarre— simply, ordinary.

And when Richard rests his hand on Asbel's back, and when Asbel lets his fingers linger on Richard's they behave as though this is how things have always been.

Asbel no longer feels uncertain. This was what he was meant to do. And even if he's running, it's no longer away, but towards his future.

* * *

Dinner is not the grand buffet Richard put on for Asbel's knighting ceremony years ago. The members of nobility are absent, as is the need for dancing lessons. Instead, they share a quiet and intimate supper between just friends. The carcass is picked clean and pudding brought out, and through the wide bay windows overlooking the garden, the sun is setting. Golden light streams in through the glass, alights on the portrait hung above the fireplace. Beard golden and lustrous in the light, the late King Ferdinand smiles down benevolently at the party.

Richard can't help but wonder: would his father be proud of him, if he could see him now?

"—The problem is that the Chancellor's death has left a vacuum of power," Malik tells him, head leant together with Richard at the table.

"And the people of Fendel are inclined toward free elections?" Richard asks him.

"Oh, naturally. But it's not the common people who are funding these radicals. As always, the bourgeoisie are the maggots clinging to the rotten status quo… no offence, your Majesty," Malik quickly interjects.

"None taken," says Richard. "I wonder, perhaps, if Windor could help orchestrate talks, as a kind of middle ground between the groups…—"

"Honestly, Richard, who raised you? Politics at the dinner table?" His wife sits at his side, leans with her elbows on the table, a complete contradictory personality, heavy diamonds dangling from her ears and hair piled atop her head. She's all for some traditional values and customs, and then she has her female paramour installed in the Queen's suite.

"You're right. Forgive me, Isabelle."

"Oh, I don't know. I'll think about it."

Richard wouldn't have married anyone else.

"Your friends are certainly… unique, Richard." She leads his eye to where Pascal is sat with Sophie and Eric, instructing Eric in her Pascal-isms, step one of which consists of _the noble sport of banana pie eating._ Isabelle watches their antics like a mildly interesting stage performance.

"I had no idea it was a sport," Sophie says, finger pressed to her chin.

"Why, Sophie, hadn't you heard?" Malik leans across the table. "Here in Barona, the banana pie eating contest is held each solstice. Why, his Majesty himself here holds the record for most banana pies eaten ever."

"True," says Richard.

"Wow, Richard. That's amazing."

On his other side, Asbel groans. Richard reaches under the table to squeeze his hand.

 _Unique,_ Isabelle had said. "That they are." The note of pride carries high in his voice.

It'd just been a few short months ago that he and Isabelle had married in Barona's great cathedral. Duke Dalen had been thrilled to see his neice settling down, and Richard had been just as content to keep his and Isabelle's deal secret from him. Most of all, it'd made him happy to see his kingdom united: not in fear or in distrust, but in excitement for the royal wedding. At last, Windor was finally picking itself out of its slump, with the wedding bringing unrivalled tourism and an economic boost to the struggling kingdom. Ceramic plates, cups, mugs, teapots, clocks, flags, celebratory gald coins from the royal mint, all flying from the shelves. On them were his name and Isabelle's entwined by the moniker U _nited In Love_. And, if that love was a falsehood, what did it matter when the people of Barona were singing in the streets once more?

* * *

Eventually, the party wraps up. Isabelle retires to her chambers and to Claire, and Richard sits cross-legged with Sophie on the rug in front of the fireplace as she buttons up her cloak, waiting for the transport to arrive.

"Richard, what do we call Asbel, now he's not a lord anymore?" she asks.

"Ser Asbel," Richard says, watching as her mouth curves into an o.

"Like a knight out of fairy tales."

"Personally, I'd just call him Asbel, if I were you though." He leans closer to add, "We can't let all this _ser_ stuff go to his head."

Sophie giggles, but Richard watches the serious thought as it parks itself in her expression. "Richard," she says, "do you think Asbel is happy now?"

That isn't a question with a simple answer. Richard knows, first-hand, how hard this year has been on Asbel. He's tried not to let it show, but Richard knows the re-opened rift with his brother weighs heavily upon him.

As well as that, the talk bothers him. Gossip and intrigue was the air Richard breathed as a child; it's nothing new to him. It's easy to forget that it isn't so for Asbel. The worst part is that there is very little Richard can do, since any defence he made of Asbel would only add to the resentment that Asbel was benefiting from some sort of favouritism. All he can do is support Asbel, and yet still, Richard worries…

Sophie is still waiting on him, but Richard doesn't have the answer. Instead he turns the question towards her, "What do you think, Sophie?"

"When I met you all as children, Asbel said it was his dream to become a knight. So… what happens now that he is a knight?"

"Well, I dare say he discovers it's not such a glamorous job as he was imagining," Richard says with a smile, but this isn't the answer she was after.

"What I mean is… what do we do now our adventures are over?" she asks him.

"I suppose that we'll have to come up with some new ones, won't we?" Richard begins to wonder if perhaps, Sophie isn't just asking about Asbel. He asks her, "What do you want to do now, Sophie?"

"I want to teach Eric the things I've learnt about, but also… I want to learn about much more too. I want to learn all about this world."

"Maybe you should go on a journey."

"To where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Maybe nowhere in particular. Just for fun."

"I think Asbel would worry if I left on my own…"

"Let me worry about Asbel," he says. Sophie beams.

"Maybe I will," she says. And then, "After we fought with the queen of Fodra, I thought that was it, like at the end of a story. And then Asbel and Cheria got married, and I thought…"

Her buttons are askew, and as she speaks Richard reaches out silently to fix them.

"Richard, is there really such a thing as a happy ending? Like in the the books?"

Her eyes look at him, searching. He fixes her buttons and brushes her cloak down.

She's grown so much.

"I'd like to say life could be like a fairy tale, but it's not true. All we can do is do our best, and strive toward the future we want to create. And hope that some happiness comes with it along the way. "

His father would have never gotten involved in the political process of other countries. And yet, Richard is not his father. His idealism was the greatest gift he could have given him, and yet, Richard knows too how cruel the world can be. He can't sit by, and stick his head in the sand, as his father had. If Windor can help Fendel through its unrest, not as an invading force, but as an ally, the world will be all the stronger for it. Maybe Richard's dream of world peace is no more than a pipe dream, and yet, it's all far too soon for him to give up. He refuses to sit still any longer.

"Richard, can I ask one more thing?"

He chuckles. "Sophie, you hardly have to ask."

"Okay. Richard, are you happy?"

The question throws him for six. Sophie's earnest eyes hold him in place, but in the end he hardly has to think about his answer. "Yes, I am."

The future is still uncertain, and there are still days where Richard is seized by anxiety and doubt. He'll possibly never shuck off the guilt that clings to him, and yet, Richard's shoulders have not felt so light in years.

Sophie's smile is so tight the dimples dig in deep at the corners of her mouth. "I'm really glad."

"As am I."

An attendant lets them know the transport to Lhant has arrived, pointedly trying to pretend the King and Sophie aren't sat together on the floor cross-legged like schoolchildren. Richard stands and offers Sophie a hand, and brings her in for a goodbye hug.

"This world is really complicated," Sophie confesses, as she pulls back.

"You're becoming an adult too, Sophie." Malik hands Sophie Eric's bag of snacks he's retrieved from the audience chamber, Asbel by his side.

"Does that mean I'm old enough to look at those secret books Asbel took away from me, Captain?" she asks, hooking it over her shoulder.

" _Captain_ ," Asbel says, the strain starting to show in his voice, before he's distracted by Pascal's entrance with his son, with Eric holding onto—

"Pascal," he splutters. "Do not let my son play with your _shotstaff_!"

He snatches it away from Eric, who on cue, begins to bawl at the loss of his new toy.

"Aww, Asbel, look what you did. You made Pascal Junior cry!"

"What _I_ did? You were the one who— wait, _Pascal Junior_?"

There are very few things funnier than the look of sheer indignation on Asbel's face, and Richard can no longer hold back his laughter. Sophie joins him too, doubling over beside him, and even Eric stops crying.

"Look, Asbel, it's not like little PJ can use it—"

" _PJ_?!"

Sophie clutches hold of Richard to steady herself in her laughter. "I— just had a feeling," she tells him, between heavy sobs of mirth. "I feel like— everything will turn out okay."

Richard is laughing too hard to make any kind of reply, but if he could, he'd tell her that he has the same feeling, too.

* * *

"Well, that sure was… something."

"Did you want to step out for some fresh air, Asbel?"

"Yeah… fresh air would be good."

He and Asbel stand out on the balcony. Richard's arms are folded on the rose-draped balustrade. Asbel leans forward on his elbows. The sun has set, the night air cool and refreshing. From this vantage spot, Richard can see down over the courtyards of the castle to the twinkling eleth lights of the city, to the endless darkness of the ocean. Music rises like an updraft from the staff quarters; the occasional shout of laughter.

"Someone's birthday, you think?" asks Asbel.

"Helena's, from the kitchens, I believe," he says.

The silence between them is light and comfortable. Even if all their friends couldn't be here, today has been a good day.

Asbel suddenly speaks, "The Captain apologised to me."

Richard turns his eyes from the twinkle of lights to the conflict etched into the lines of Asbel's face.

"Apologised? What for?"

"He said he owed me an apology for years ago, when he and everyone pushed me to confess to Cheria. He said he regretted it. I… told him it wasn't necessary, though. It's true he encouraged me, but I don't want to blame anyone else for the mistakes I've made."

Richard looks down at his entwined fingers. "Honestly, Asbel, I owe you an apology for that too, since I helped encourage you as well."

"I've wondered about that for a while… why did you do it, Richard?" Asbel turns to him, face half lit from the lamps in the hall, half in shadow.

"At the time, I honestly thought it was your best chance at happiness," Richard says.

"You… never thought about your own?"

Richard smiles, bittersweet. "No. But I'm trying to change that."

He'd spent so many years trying to make amends, it was all too easy to slip back into old habits. But now, when he neglects himself and tries to work through the night, Asbel is there to push him into bed. He no longer skips meals when Asbel is here to dine with him. Richard wants to make Asbel happy, but what makes Asbel happy is… seeing him smile.

In truth, there are still many days were Richard wakes up in awe that of all people, Asbel needs him. Had chosen him. Yet on others, it seems completely natural, and as Asbel slips his fingers through Richard's, he's sure he's never felt anything more right.

"I'm glad to hear it," Asbel says, before he nudges Richard with his shoulder. "Hey, look at us. Being honest with our feelings and stuff."

Richard bumps him back. "I like it," he says.

Asbel squeezes his hand. They've taken this very slowly. Even though Richard often has the feeling Asbel would like to take things further than they've gone, he's never pushed Richard into anything.

There are plenty of nights, lying by Asbel's side, that Richard wonders how on Ephinea he ever got so lucky.

To think: as a boy, he'd once stood on this spot, looking down at the knight academy, trying to pick apart the indistinguishable figures in the yard, wondering if Asbel was amongst their number. Back then, he'd never even believed he'd live to meet Asbel again, and now…

The music from the staff quarters fades as the fast song on the fiddle ends, and a slower walz begins. Richard watches the growing brightness in Asbel's eyes. "I just realised something. This is the first time I've been out here since…"

The memory clicks into place for Richard, too. "…Since the party for your knighting ceremony, years ago," he finishes.

It was only a few short years ago, yet if he could go back in time and tell himself what would occur between them, he doubted he himself would have believed it.

Their eyes meet. "So." Asbel's voice half laughter, half deadly serious. "Your Majesty, may I have this dance?"

"I would be honoured, Ser."

All those years ago, Richard had claimed he only trembled from the cold. Yet he does not attempt to explain away his shaking hands now, heart pounding in his chest. The trembling does not cease until Asbel firmly but gently takes his hand, leading him with the steps he taught him.

Three years ago, Richard never would have thought any of this possible. He'd swallowed down his feelings and his happiness. Never dreamed himself worthy of Asbel's love.

Yet, as Asbel turns him around, he wonders what worthiness has to do with love at all. Asbel leads him, just as Richard's hand at his waist supports Asbel. It's been years since they last danced, and yet they move together effortlessly.

And when the music folds away into the dark, Richard needs no excuse to linger. He does what he should have done four years ago but was too afraid to, and closes the distance between them. His hand cups Asbel's face, brushing over the bristly patch he'd missed with the razor sat in their shared bathroom. Kisses him, slow and deep and lingering, a kiss full of half a lifetime's worth of longing. He feels Asbel's arms pull around him, tighter, until their bodies and touching and Richard can feel Asbel's heartbeat beating beside his own.

For a few minutes, Richard lets himself forget about the world and its machinations, about _worthiness_ and _deserving of_. His forehead is pressing against Asbel's, Asbel's arms around him. Richard lets himself be happy.

 **The End.**

* * *

 _Thank you's, references, acknowledgements (aka the part where you can stop reading if you want)_

-It's implied the child in the Graces epilogue is Asbel and Cheria's great great grandson (give or take a grandson, I forget). But, barring inbreeding, this kid looks far too similar to both Asbel and Cheria to be anything other than their kid. So imagine him as Eric.

-with The Terminator as his big sister, Eric is likely to be the safest little brother there ever was.

-the title comes from Florence and the Machine's song Long and Lost. Also picked because I wanted to be able to abbreviate the fic to L & L, since this fic originated as a fix sequel to Lineages and Legacies.

-you know that Asbel would be the most unbearable overprotective father. don't try to deny it.

-the nickname PJ stuck for life.

-Pascal still owns the set of Hubert's military uniform she won from him at their game of rummy. she likes to wear it to costume parties.

 **-Most importantly,** thank you to all of you for reading and leaving kudos, especially to those of you kind enough to leave me comments and geek out with me about Tales of Graces.

-also, check out Richass week in july, and make lots of things for it.


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